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HERE'S a charm 

and a restfulness 

about Granny's 

kitchen — a cheery 

atmosphere of 

cleanliness and comfort; and 

Granny, in the old chair by 

the fireside, has a hearty 

welcome for everyone. 

Granny has always been proud 
of her home, and Hudson's Soap 
has always been her faithful 
friend, Hudson's Soap still 
remains unequalled for all home 
cleaning, for making linen as 
fresh as the sea breeze, for 
washing up after meals. 






An Illustrated Monthly 


Xon&on : 








ACROSTICS 44,no, 207, 383, 443, 5»* 


AFFAIR OF SENTIMENT, AN Roland Pertwee. 129 

AIRMAN AS EXPLORER, THE Reg. Cudworth. 87 

ALBERTS RETURN . Edgar Jepson. 384 


ARTFUfrCAJ&S W.W.Jacobs. 233 


BEACH OF DREAMS, THE. A Romance .. H.deVere StacpooU. 92 


BEAUTY, THE QUEST OF Edwin F. Bowers, M.D. 290 


BIRDS, WILD. Those That Help and Those That Harm „'. Dr. W. E. CoUinge, DSc, etc. 239 

BRAN-MASH, THE Lynn Doyle. 116 


BRIDGE. " The Best Rubber I Ever Saw Played." R. F. Foster, Ernest Bergholt, " Yarborough" 635 

BURIED TREASURE F. Britten Austin. 303 

CALL OF CRICKET, THE Hylton CUaver. 292 


CHESS CURIOSITIES T.B.Rowland. 86,185,624 

CHIVALRY UP-TO-DATE .. .. W . Heath Robinson. 65 



DUEL IN THE COPSE, THE L.J. Beeston. 203 

ECLIPSE HANDICAP, THE .. .. Frank Condon. 320 

FALL OF HO VELLER'S CLIFF, THE Harold Steevens. 255 

FIT, HOW I KEEP By the Champions oj Leading Sports. 28 

FLY TO PARIS, HOW IT FEELS TO F. Britten Austin. 582 

FORECAST, A Vernie E. Connelly. 396 


GAMES, LUCK AND SKILL IN A Symposium oj Experts. 551 


GOLF AS A TEST OF CHARACTER By the American Champion, " Chick " Evans. 208 

GRAVE RESPONSIBILITY, A Stacy Aunumier. 143 

HAPPY HUSBAND, THE.— Part II Ernest Goodwin. 33 

HELD IN BONDAGE F . Britten Austin. 3 

HER FREEDOM Ethel M. Dell 153 

HIDDEN EYES, THE .. (^^ 0\ igi CI a from Richar d Camden. 458 


INDEX. iii. 




IDOL'S EYE, THE "Sapper." 503 

IF ? Edgar Wallace and Albert de Courville. 249 

JOHNNY BUYS A " PUP." A Story for Children H. B. CreswdL 637 

JOHNNY'S DISAPPEARANCE. A Story for Children H. B. CresweU. 194 

JOKE GO ? WHAT MAKES A. The Experience of Popular Artistes 265 

KIDDIES GRAVE AND GAY C. H. Twelvetrees. 601 

KIDDIES' HOLIDAY, THE C.H. Twelvetrees. 69 



LARRABIE'S TREE M. L.C. Pickthall. 415 

LUCK AND SKILL IN GAMES A Symposium of Experts. 551 

MACKURD. A Tale of the Aftermath Bertram Atkey. 429 

MAGIC, THE FUTURE OF David Dcvant. 410 


MAN WHO STOLE A JOB, THE Hylton Cleaver. 336 

MARYTARY'S BIRTHDAY. A Story for Children . . .... . . U.B. Creswell. 495 




MR. MILLER AND THE KAISER Edgar Wallace. 103 

44 MUDIE'S." The Diamond Jubilee of a Great Library James Milne. 138 




ODDS, THE EthelM.DeV. 587 


OMAR THE STRONG MAN Frank Condon. 628 


PARALLEL LINES W. Pett Ridge. 441 

PARIS, HOW IT FEELS TO FLY TO F. Britten Austin. 582 

PARTNERS. A Lawn Tennis Story Sydney HorUr. 351 

PERPLEXITIES Henry E. Dudeney. 100, 200, 300, 400, 500, 595 

PETER THE DEVIL . . . . W.M. Rouse. 469 

PHIZZ- JERKS W . Heath Robinson. 281 

PIANOFORTE-PLAYING, SOME SECRETS OF. Can You Play a Scale ? . . Mark Hambourg. 381 

PICTURES THAT SET MEN THINKING A Symposium of Famous Artists. 165 


POINT OF ETHICS, A F. Britten Austin. 555 


PRODUCING A PLAY. An Interview with Mr. Leon M. Lion 625 

PSYCHOLOGY OF AUDIENCES, THE Oi g i n*l f 'Offf Da ™<* Deuam. 1 25 

PUZZLELAND, SIMON IN. A Christmas Fantasy .. UNIVERSITY OF MICHffttfN Em Dudent y- 6 4 2 

QUEST OF BEAUTY, THE Edwin F. Bowers, M.D. 290 

it. INDEX. 


REAL TEST, THE ... • .. . .. ... ... "Sapper* 273 


REMINISCENCES, MY Ellaline Ternss and Seymour Hicks. 13 

RESCUE OF ORMISTON, THE .. Charles Gawice. 574 

RIVER DREAM. A Stella Callaghan. 73 

4 RUBBER I EVER SAW PLAYED, THE BEST " ~ R. F. Foster, Ernest Bergholt, " Yarboroughr 635 

44 SAGO." A Story for Children H.B. CresweU. 285 


SAUCE HABIT, THE Wm.Caine. 245 

SELF-CONVICTED Arthur Caighton. 613 


I. — Lord Leverhulme Harold Begbie. 359 

lid — Lord Pirrif James Douglas. 423 

SERVICE REVOLVER, THE Harold S eevens. 18 

SHORT STORY, £250 FOR A 59$ 

SIMON IN PUZZLELAND. A Christmas Fantasy Henry E. Dudeney. 642 



" SPIRIT-PICTURES," A PAINTER OF Herbert Vivian. 444 

SPRING FROCK, THE .. .. P. G. Wodehouse. 517 

STAKE IN WAITING, THE . . m Hylton Cleaver. 50 

STREET ENTERTAINERS .. * FennSherie. 476 

SULTAN AT HOME, THE Walter B. Harris 526 

SYCAMORE JUMPER, THE. A Natural History Puzzle Solved for the First Time. 

John J. Ward, F.ES. 377 

TANKS. Revelations of the Secret History of Their Construction. Extracts from the Note- 
Book of a Pioneer Sir Albert Stern, KJB.E., C.M.G. 223 





I.— The Law of the Ghost . . 543 

VISION OR ?A. .. David Devant. 82,329 

WELLS, H. G., AS HISTORIAN Arthur lynch. 464 


WOMAN IS ONLY A WOMAN. A _ .. .. P. G. Wodehouse. 368 

WOMAN WHO LEARNED, THE .. _ May Edfinton. 214 

GoOgk Original from 






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Vol. 58. 

JULY, 1919. 

No. 343- 



•WO French 

o fficers, 

wearing the 

red velvet 
band of the medical 
service upon their 
caps, followed an 
old woman down 
the staircase of a 
pleasant villa-residence 

".The bedrooms will suit perfectly," 
elder of the two officers, a major, in 

E BrittenAusfin 

Illustrated by C. CfarkRI. 

on the outskirts of 


common cause — 
the cause of 
humanity, n'est-ce 
pas ? which knows 
no national 

" We desired a 
sitting-room," said 
Major Chassaigne, 
unctuous profession 

said the 

And now a sitting-room ? " 

The old woman led them along a passage and, 
without a word, threw open the door of a room 
lined with books. The two officers entered, 
looked around in appraisement of the accommo- 

They were startled by a man's voice behind them. 

" Good day, messieurs I " 

They turned to see a tall civilian, pince-nez 
gleaming over exceptionally vivid blue eyes, 
fair moustache, fair hair cut short and brushed 
up straight from a square forehead, smiling at 
them from the doorway. 

" I sun Dr. Breidenbach — at your service," 
he said, courteously, in accentless French. 

The major stepped forward. 

" I am Major Chassaigne, monsieur. I — and 
my assistant, Lieutenant Vincent, here — have 
been allotted quarters in your house. Here is 
the billet de (ogement.** He held out a piece of 
paper. " It is issued with the authority of the 
Army of Occupation and countersigned by your 
municipality. I regret to put you to incon- 
venience " 

" Not at all ! not at all ! " interposed the 
German, affably, taking the billeting order. As 
his face went serious in a scrutiny of the docu- 
ment the two officers had an impression of 
extreme intelligence and ruthless will-power. 
He looked up again with a nod of assent, his 
smile masking everything behind its gleam of 
blue eyes and white teeth. " Perfectly correct, 
monsieur f Please consider my house at your 
disposition. I am charmed to be of assistance 
to any covftires of my profession." He smiled 
recognition of their red cap-bands. " Although 
you wear another uniform than that which I 
myself have but recently quitted, we serve in a 

VoL Iviti.— 1 . Copyright, 1919, by 

ignoring this 
of altruism. 

The German waved his hand about the room. 

" If this will suit you ? " 

" Your library, monsieur ? " queried the 

"My work-room," replied the doctor. "Be- 
fore this deplorable war interrupted my studies 
I had some little reputation in my special branch 
of mental therapeutics. If you are interested in 
psychology, normal and abnormal, you will find 
here a very complete collection of works upon the 

subject. Use them freely, by ail means 

Well, if you arc satisfied, gentlemen, I will leave 
you, for I am a busy man. I was just about to 
visit some patients when you arrived. Auf 
uriedersehen ! " He smiled and left them. 

Vincent turned to his senior with a puzzled 

" What is it about that man I do not like ? " 

The older man shrugged his shoulders. 

" Too friendly by far. They are all the same, 
these Boches — they would do anything to make 
us forget," he said, divesting himself of his belt. 
" I am going to have a rest and a cigarette before 
we walk back into the town." 

The young man wandered around the room, 
scanning the titles of the books on the shelves, 
.picking up the various bibelots scattered about. 
Suddenly he uttered a startled cry. 

" Mon Dieu ! Look at this ! " 

The major turned to him. In his hand he 
held a small snapshot photograph. He stared 
at it, trembling violently. 

" What is the matter ? " 

" Look — it is she ! " The young man's face 
was a study in horrified astonishment. 

Chassaigne looked over his comrade's shoulder 
at the photograph. It represented their host 
arm in arm with a good-looking young woman. 

"She?" he queried, with a tolerant smile. 
" Be a little more explicit, my dear Vincent." 

F. Britten Austin. 


The young man turned on him. 

" You remember the deportations from Lille ? 
The women and girls the Boche snatched from 
their homes ? My fiancde was among them." 
His voice checked at the painful memory. 
" Other women have been traced, returned to 
their relatives. She has never been heard of again." 

" My poor friend ! " murmured the major, 
sympathetica! 1 y . 

Vincent stared once more, as if fascinated, at 
the photograph in his hand. 

" It is she — in every detail ! Yet " His 

tone was puzzled. " No ! I cannot believe it ! 
It is some chance resemblance. This woman is 
obviously happy — content, at least." He looked 
up, passed over the photograph. " Chassaigne, 
you are an analyst of the human mind. What 
relationship do you diagnose between those two 
people ? " 

The major took the print, scrutinized it 

"Friends, certainly — lovers, possibly," was 
his sententious verdict. 

" Then it cannot be ! " cried the young man. 
" My fiancee was — is, I am sure of it— incapable 
of a faithless acquiescence in the wrong done to 

" Can one ever be sure about a woman' ? " 
said the major, with a gentle cynicism. " llow- 
ever, I agree with you that it is improbable that 
the person in the photograph is your lost friend. 
It is, as you say, a chance resemblance." 

"If I could only be certain of it ! " The 
young man was obviously stirred to the depths. 
" I must make sure, Chassaigne — I must get to 
know this woman — find out who she is ! ' ' 

Both men turned at the sound of the door 
opening behind them. A young woman, tall, 
dark, strikingly handsome, stood timidly upon 
the threshold. It was the woman of the photo- 

" Dr. — Dr. Breidenbach ? " she faltered, as 
though disconcerted by an unexpected meeting 
with strangers. 

Vincent stared at her, held in a suspense of 
the faculties where he seemed not to breathe. 
At last he found his voice. 

" Helene ! " he cried. " Helene ! It is you ! " 
He sprang to her, clutched her arm. " What are 
you doing here ? " 

With a frightened gesture of repulsion the 
young woman disengaged herself from his grasp. 
She drew herself up, looked at him without the 
faintest recognition in her eyes. 

44 Ich spreche nicht frambsisch, mein Herr ! " 
she said in a tone of cold rebuff. 

44 Helene ! " 

She shrank back in obviously offended dignity 
and, without another word, naughtily left the 

Vincent reeled away from the closed door, his 
hands to his head. 

" My God ! " he groaned. " Am I going mad?" 

Then, ceding to a sudden impulse, he eluded 
his friend's restraining grasp, dashed to the door. 

" H61ene ! " 

He found himself confronted by the smiling 
figure of Dr. Breidenbach. 

" Pardon the unintended intrusion, mes- 
sieurs ! " he said, good-humouredly apologetic 
and taking no notice of Vincent's excited appear- 
ance. "My ward, Fraulein Rosenhagen, was 
unaware that I had guests. I merely wished to 
reassure myself that you require nothing before 
I go into the town. Is there anything you 
desire of me ? " 

" Nothing, thank you," interposed Chas- 
saigne, quickly, before Vincent could speak. 

44 A tantot, then I " He nodded amicably and 
went out. 

44 We ought to have questioned him 1 " cried 
Vincent, resentful of the missed opportunity. 

44 We ought to do nothing of the kind, my 
dear Vincent," replied Chassaigne. " Calm your- 
self. Be sensible. What question could we 
possibly ask that would not be ridiculous ? You 
may be utterly wrong." 

44 J* is she I I swear it I " asserted the young 
man, vehemently. ,4 Do you think 1 cannot 
recognize a woman I have known all my life ? " 

He commenced to pace up and down the room 
in wild, agitation. His friend contemplated 
him with a gaze of genuine solicitude. 

44 You may be mistaken for all that," he said, 
gently. " Doubles, although rare, exist " 

Vincent glared at him in exasperation. 

" My fiancee had three little moles just above 
her right wrist— I looked for those three moles 
when I held that woman's arm just now— -and 1 
found them ! Are doubles so exactly reproduced 
as that % ? " he asked, furiously. 

" It sounds incredible, certainly,*' agreed 
Chassaigne. " But her attitude " 

" I know," said Vincent, recommencing his 
pacing up and down the room. 44 She looked 
at me like a complete stranger. But," he 
ground his teeth in jealous rage, 44 if she has 
consented to live with that man — she might have 
pretended — to hide her shame " 

44 My friend," said Chassaigne, seriously, "in 
that young woman was neither shame nor pre- 
tence. I observed her closely. She genuinely 
did not recognize any acquaintance in you. She 
genuinely did not even know French. She was 
genuinely resentful of your familiarity. That 
was no play-acting performance. She was 
taken by surprise. She had no time to prepare 
herself for it." 

The young man beat his brow. 

14 Oh, I am going mad ! " he cried. " It was 
she, I swear it I— and yet — she did not know me ! 
It baffles me." He stopped for a moment, then 
looked up with a new idea. " Chassaigne, 
you are an authority on these things. Is it 
possible — by hypnotism or anything of the sort 
— to change a personality completely ? So that 
they forget everything— start afresh ? " 

Chassaigne met his glance, hesitated. 

44 It is — perhaps — possible," he said, slowly. 
He went up to his friend, put his hand on his 
shoulder, drew him to a chair. 4< Sit down, my 
dear fellow. Let us be calm and think this out. 
If you are right — if this young woman is indeed 
your — your friend — your suggestion might per- 
haps be the key to the enigma. But we shall 
achieve nothing by getting excited." 


Vincent allowed himself to be gently forced 
into the chair, He looked white and ill, 
thoroughly shaken. His friend, contemplating 
him, was impressed by his appearance- Could 
such a shock be produced by a merely imagined 
resemblance ? He felt that it could not — and 
then those three moles I His mind reverted to 
the young woman, to her indubitably genuine 
non -recognition, and he felt more than ever 
pu riled. With a quiet deliberation he drew up 
a chair and seated himself close to his comrade. 

"Now let us analyse this problem/* he said. 
Be spoke in a calm, 
consulting- room 
voice which elim- 
inated in advance 
all emotion from 
the discussion. 

Vincent looked 
up, his eyes miser- 

,f Have you ever 
known of such a 
case t w 

"Of a person- 
ality permanently 
changed ? No." 

" Is it hypothe- 
ticalty possible ? " 

" Hy^othetically 
— yes/' 

"By hypno- 
tism? \ 

" By hypnotism 
and suggestion." 

" But a woman 
cannot be hypno- 
tized against her 
will, can she ? Ji 

" No — tech n i- 
cally not — but her 
will may be stun- 
ned, so to speak p 
into abeyance by 
a tudden shock or 
by terror, and then, 
virtually, she might 
be hypnotized 
against her will. 
It is possible/' 

The young man took a deep breath, 

" That acquits her moral responsibility. But 
you say It is hypot helically possible to change a 
personality permanently? It sounds fantastic 
to me. Would you please explain ? " 

Chassaigne leaned back in his chair and lightly 
joined the finger-tips of his two hands. He 
spoke in the impersonal tone of a professor 
elucidating a thesis. 

" Well, my dear fellow, to begin at the begin- 
ning we should have to analyse personality — 
and human personality is a mystery I confess 
myself unable to explore. You arc aware, 
however, that there are people who have double 
personalities— even triple and multiple person- 
alities — which differ utterly. For some reason 
which eludes us one of these submerged person- 
alities in an individual may suddenly come to 

cases," interposed 
a thoroughly well- 



the top. He, or she, entirely forgets the person- 
ality which was theirs up to that moment, ior- 
gets name, relations, every circumstance of life— 
and is completely someone else, quite new. 
There is a recent case, exhaustively studied, of a 
young woman with four such personalities — 
over which she has not the slightest control, and 
which differ profoundly, mentally and morally* 
I mention this merely to show you how unstable 
personality may be." 

" These are pathological 
Vincent. " My fiancee was 

balanced woman." 

"Before the 
war, when you last 
saw her. She 
must have gone 
th rough great 
stress since* Bui 
let us continue. 
Under hypnotism 
a person is 
susceptible to the 
suggestions of the 
operator. He will 
carry out perfectly 
any r&U indicated 
to him* The reason 
is that in the 
hypnotic condition 
the conscious per- 
sonality is put to 
sleep and the sub- 
jective mind — the 
ing consciousness 
which is inde- 
pendentof the wilt 
— is paramount. 
That subjective 
mind possesses 
little if any power 
of origination, but 
it has a startling 
faculty of drama- 
tiling any sugges- 
tion made to it. 
Tell a hypnotic that he is President Wilson at the 
Peace Conference, and he will get up and makv 
a speech perfectly in character, amazingly 
apposite, expressing ideas that are normally 
perhaps quite alien to his temperament. Tell 
him that he is Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo, 
and he will act the part with a reality that is 
impressive. He believes himself actually to be 
Napoleon. Under hypnotism, then, the person- 
ality which is mirrored in the Ego — which you 
believe to be the essential, unchanging you — 
may be utterly changed — - — ,r 

" Yes/' objected Vincent. " But that is only 
during the hypnotic trance. It is not per- 

4f Wait i moment/' said Chassaigne. " Sug- 
gestions .mad^dtiringMaie, hypnotic trance mav 
and^ttMKWft^lfl^yttto has awakened 


f ' 1M 




from it. I may, for example, suggest to the 
hypnotized person that when he wakes he will 
have forgotten his native language— and he will 
forget it. If he knows no other, he will remain 
dumb until I remove the suggestion. I may 
suggest to him that a person actually in the room 
is not there — and he will not perceive him. I 
may suggest that in a week, a month, a year, at 
such and such an hour, he will perform some 
absurd action — and punctually to the moment, 
without understanding the source of his impulse, 
he will perform it. Post-hypnotic persistence of 
suggestion is a scientific fact." 

■' Then — in this case ? " 

" In this case we have to do with a clever and 
possibly unscrupulous man who is a specialist in 
manipulating the human mind. Of course, he 
practises hypnotic suggestion as a part of his 
profession — it is the chief agent in modern mental 
therapeutics. It is possible that by some means 
he got this young woman into his power after 
she was dragged from her home. It is possible 
that he was violently attracted to her and, 
finding that she did not reciprocate his sentiments, 
proceeded to subject her individuality to his. 
How would he do this ? He would drug or 
stun her volition by terror — as, for example, a 
bird is helplessly fascinated in fear of the snake. 
Then, using some common mechanical means, 
such as the revolving mirror — staring into her 
eyes — anything that would fatigue the sensory 
centres of sight — he would induce a hypnotic 
trance. In that trance he would suggest to her 
that her name was no longer Helene whatever 
it was — but Fraulein Rosenhagen, that she was 
a German woman ignorant of French, that she 
was perfectly happy and contented in his 
society. In the supernormally receptive state 
of the hypnotized mind he could give her lessons 
in German, which would be learned with a speed 
and accuracy far surpassing that of ordinary 
education. He would suggest to her that all 
his lessons persisted after waking. Finally, he 
would constantly reiterate these suggestions in 
t a succession of hypnotic trances — once the first 
has been induced it is easy to bring about the 
second — until he had reconstructed her per- 
sonality, or rather imposed a new one upon her 

" There, my dear Vincent, presuming that 
you are correct in your recognition of this young 
lady, is a theoretical explanation of the phe- 
nomenon which confronts us. For that the 
young woman genuinely did not recognize you, 
I am certain." 

" She is held in the most diabolical slavery 
ever conceived, then ! " cried Vincent, in 
despair. " A slavery of the soul ! But can 
nothing be done ? " 

Chassaigne shrugged his shoulders. 

" Something can be attempted, my dear 
fellow. I promise nothing/' He rose from his 
chair. " Now I want you to promise to keep 
quiet — not to interfere. Fortunately, I speak 
German, and can talk to her in the language she 
believes to be her own. Wait a minute." He 
roved around the room, opening the cupboards 
under the bookcase*?, the drawers in the writing 

table by the window. " Ah, here we are ! " he 
ejaculated. He held up a small silver mirror 
which revolved quickly upon its single support 
under the motion of his fingers. " I expected 
that our friend the doctor would possess this 
little instrument." He smiled. " Very con- 
siderate of him to go out and leave us to our- 
selves ! Now we will try and profit by the 
circumstance. I am going to find that young 
lady and bring her to you. You will maintain 
the attitude of a complete stranger who regrets 
an impulsive familiarity for which a mistake in 
identity is responsible. Master yourself ! " He 
put the little mirror on the table and went out 
of the room. 

A few moments later he returned, held the door 
wide open for the young woman to enter. He 
spoke in fluent German. 

" My young friend, Fraulein, will not be 
consoled until he has had the opportunity of a 
personal apology ! " 

The young woman inclined her head gravely, 
and somewhat shyly advanced to the centre of 
the room. Vincent rose to his feet, his face 
deadly white, trembling - in every limb, and 
bowed. Ignorant of German, he could not 
utter a word. Chassaigne turned to him, 
spoke to him in French. 

" Look closely at Fraulein Rosenhagen, tnon 
ami — and satisfy yourself." 

The muscles of his face tense under the effort 
to repress his emotion, to appear normal, the 
young man looked at her for a long moment. 
She returned his gaze without a quiver of the 
eyelids, smiled with the kindliness which sets 
a stranger at his ease. 

" It is she — it is she," he muttered, hoarsely. 
" I swear it ! " 

Chassaigne turned to the young woman. 

" My young friend is much affected by your 
extraordinary resemblance to a lady he knew, 
Fraulein," he said, smilingly, in German. " But 
he perceives now that he was mistaken. You 
will, I am sure, pardon an emotion that a person 
of your charm will readily understand. My 
friend was greatly attached to the lady he 
thought he recognized in you." 

The young woman smiled upon Vincent in 
feminine sympathy for a lover. 

" Is she a German ? " she asked in a rich deep 
voice that made him start. 

Chassaigne replied for him. 

" No, Fraulein — she is a Frenchwoman brought 
to Germany against her will." 

He observed her narrowly as he spoke. Her 
face remained calm. His words, evidently, 
awakened no latent memory in her. 

•' How dreadful ! " she said. Her rich voice 
vibrated on a note of unfeigned sympathy which 
was, nevertheless, impersonal. " Poor man ! 
And he does not know where she is ? " 

" He has no idea, Fraulein," replied Chas- 
saigne. " But let us leave this painful subject. 
Will you not keep us company for a few minutes ? 
We are strangers in a strange land." With 
a gallant courtesy, which, however, omitted 
to wait for her assent, he took her right hand 
and led her to a chair. His quick eyes noted 



the three moles upon her wrist. She seated 
herself almost automatically. He registered, 
in support of his theory, her easy susceptibility 
to a quietly insistent suggestion. " Will you 
not tell us what is most worth seeing in Mainz ? " 
he asked, smilingly. 

She looked up at him. 

" Alas, mein Herr, I cannot," she said. 
" I have never been in the city." 

" Indeed ? " He expressed mild but courteous 
surprise. " Perhaps you have only recently 
come to live here yourself ? " 

" Yes — er — no 1 " She smiled at her own 
confusion. " I mean we have been here some 
time — but we travelled so much before we 
came here — that I — I have really lost count " 

Chassaigne made a reassuring little gesture 
which relegated the matter to a limbo of indiffer- 
ence . 

" You travelled with Dr. Breidenbach, I pre- 
sume ? " he asked, casually. 

" Yes. We went to a great many places. 
He was in the army then." 

" When you first met him ? " 

" Yes." Her first tone of confident assertion 
changed almost as she uttered it to one of puzzled 
doubt. " Yes — I — I think so — I really forget." 
She smiled in self -apology. " I have a very 
bad memory, you see, mein Herr," she said, 
as if in explanation. M Dr. Breidenbach is 
treating me for it." 

" Ah ? Doubtless he is doing you a great 
deal of good ? " Chassaigne seated himself 
upon the edge of the table and smiled down upon 
her in paternal benevolence. 

" Oh, yes," she began, impulsively. " You 
see, we are going to be married. But Dr. 
Breidenbach thinks it would not be right to be 
married until my memory is perfectly restored. 
So " — she hesitated, then smiled up with an 
innocent naivet}, " so you see I am doing all 
I can to concentrate and — and get it right." 

" Mon Dieu I " groaned Vincent in a low tone 
of anguish, turning away and staring out of the 

Chassaigne frowned admonition at him in a 
quick glance unperceived by the young woman. 
Unobtrusively he put one hand behind him, 
picked up the revolving mirror from the table, 
held it behind his back. He nodded assent to 
her little self -revelation. 

" Of course. No doubt you are making very 
rapid progress. Dr. Breidenbach is a^very clever 
man, is he not ? " 

" Oh yes — very clever. And so kind ! " 

Chassaigne nodded again, his smile holding 
her confidence. As if absent-mindedly, he 
brought the little mirror in front of him, played 
with it. He noticed that her eyes fixed them- 
selves instinctively upon it. 

" Pretty toy ! " he remarked, casually. " It 
belongs to Dr. Breidenbach, I suppose ? " 

She stared at it in a strange fascination, 
shuddered suddenly. 

" Yes," she said, with a little gesture before 
her eyes, as though trying to throw off a spell ; 
"yes — I — I think so- 

A scientific instrument, I presume ? " con- shrugged his shoulders 

tinued Chassaigne, imperturbably, as if merely 
interested in a curiosity, twirling the support 
between his fingers so that the mirror rapidly 
revolved. Imperceptibly he leaned , forward, 
brought it nearer to her eyes. " It suggests 
sleep, I think," he continued in a quiet level 
voice that had suddenly acquired a peculiar 
intensity. " Sleep ! Sleep, Fraulein ! " 

She stared at it, open-eyed, stiffening curiously. 
A phrase of protest seemed frozen on her lips. 

He held it very close to her face, revolving the 
mirror in a long-continued series of rapid flashes 
before her eyes. 

" Sleep ! " he commanded in his intense level 

Her breast heaved in a long sleepy sigh. She 
shuddered again, stiffened suddenly, sat rigid, 
entranced. Vincent, watching, crept forward 
tense with anxiety. 

" What are you going to do ?" he whispered. 

Chassaigne motioned him to silence with a 
gesture of his forefinger. He turned to the 
young woman. 

" You are asleep, are you not ? " 

She did not reply. 

" You hear me?" 

" Yes." 

Her lips moved, but beyond that shtf did not 

" In that sleep you remember things which 
you had otherwise forgotten." He turned to 
Vincent, whispered : " What is her name ? " 

" H616ne Courvoisier." 

Chassaigne bent over her, picked up the wrist 
with the three moles. 

" Do you remember Hel&ne Courvoisier ? " 

" No." 

" Not even the name ? " 

" Not even the name." 

There was a short silence, and then Chas- 
saigne spoke again in insistent level tones. 

" I suggest to you that you are yourself 
Hellene Courvoisier I " 

Vincent, guessing the purport of the words, 
held his breath in suspense. To his despair the 
young woman responded with a far-away but 
genuinely mirthful laugh. 

" No ! How absurd 1 " she said, laughing 
like a person under a drug. " I am Ottilie 
Rosenhagen ! I was always Ottilie Rosen- 
hagen ! " She laughed again, hysterically, but 
more and more freely, more and more loudly, 
more and more the laugh of a person normally 
awake. Still laughing, she shuddered, passed 
her hand across her brow, relaxed suddenly from 
her stiff attitude — and ceased to laugh with a 
glance around of bewilderment. She fixed her 
eyes upon Chassaigne. 

" I — I think I feel unwell," she said, rising 
brusquely from her chair. " Excuse me ! — I — 
I cannot stay ! " 

Without a glance behind her she went swift' y 
from the room. 

Vincent watched her go, anguish and despair 
in his eyes. He turned to Chassaigne. 

" Well PQ^ejaskie^hoarsely. 

Chassaigne made a gesture of annoyance. He 




" I might have guessed as much ! " he said. 
" He has rendered her immune to the suggestion. 
You see, the trance was induced easily enough. 
As I thought, she was accustomed to being 
hypnotized by that mirror, and the mere sight of 
it was almost sufficient. Without that I should 
certainly have failed to hypnotize her at all, for 
Breidenbach would assuredly have impressed 
upon her the suggestion that she could be 
hypnotized by no one but himself. He has 
furthermore guarded himself by impressing upon 
her that the suggestion of being anybody but 
Ottilie Rosenhagen will suffice to break the 
trance. He cannot be sure that such an im- 
pressionable subject may not be hypnotized, 
possibly by a chance accident — such things 
occur — in his absence. But he can be sure that 
any counter-suggestion on the vital matter will 
defeat itself — as we have just seen." 

" But can no one remove the suggestion ? " 
cried Vincent. He glared around the room, 
clenching his fist. " The infernal scoundrel ! 
By Heaven, I'll kill him ! " He fingered the 
revolver in the holster strapped to his belt. 

Chassaigne laid a restraining hand upon him. 

" If you do— you will in all probability kill 
the only man in the world who can replace the 
factitious personality of Ottilie Rosenhagen by 
the real personality of Helene Courvoisier 1 " 

Vincent stared at him. 

" Do you mean that ? " 

" He certainly can remove the suggestions he 
has himself made. It is doubtful whether any 
other can." 

" He must be forced to do it ! We must 
inform the authorities ! " 

" Agreed, my dear fellow ! " Chassaigne's 
voice was soothing. *' But we must first get 
evidence — real evidence — that this young woman 
is not Ottilie Rosenhagen but Helene Cour- 
voisier. What evidence have we got now that 
we could put up before a tribunal ? None. 
Merely your alleged recognition, as against her 
own emphatic denial that she is the person you 
maintain. And at the present time not even 
the most cunning ' cross-examination could 
elucidate the fact that she had ever known the 
French language. Ottilie Rosenhagen does not 
know French — and at this moment, to all 
intents and purposes, she is Ottilie Rosenhagen ! " 

" Then we must get hold of him ourselves ! " 

" He will simply laugh at us as madmen — 
apply to have us removed from his house. No, 
my dear fellow, we cannot force the pace. 
Wait. Be patient. Arouse no suspicion in his 
mind. Our opportunity will come, be sure of 
that. The real personality of Helene Cour- 
voisier is there all the time, latent. I am 
confident that we shall — somehow— succeed in 
bringing it to the surface again." 

The young man shuddered. 

" I wish I could see how ! " he said, hope- 

"You will see it. I guarantee it," said 
Chassaigne, forcing his cheerfulness. " Now, 
come away out of this house. We will go into 
Mainz, dine, spend the evening at a caft, and 
forget it — or talk it over, as you will. We can 

do nothing more now." He smiled at him. 
" Come 1 As your superior officer I command 
you ! " 

The hour was late when the two officers re- 
turned. Before going out Chassaigne had 
provided himself with a key, and they let them- 
selves into the house. It was quiet, its occu- 
pants apparently in bed. Throughout the 
evening there had been but one topic of con- 
versation, and as it was yet unexhausted they 
went into Dr. Breidenbach's library, switched 
on the lights, and sat down for a final smoke 
before retiring. 

" What we require," said Chassaigne, for the 
twentieth time, as he lit his cigarette, " is 
demonstrable evidence, something that makes 
it certain that you are not under an illusion. 
Even in my own mind, I cannot help confessing, 
there is a doubt. Look at it from my point of 
view. You assure me that you recognize the 
young woman. Good — but your recognition 
may be an error, although sincere. You 
strengthen your case by pointing to the three 
moles. But if I were questioned I should be 
bound to admit that you did not mention those 
moles until you had seen them on this woman! 
You may be suffering from a not uncommon de- 
lusion of memory which refers to the past a thing 
now for the first time perceived. The strongest 
piece of evidence we possess is that, under the 
psychical analysis to which we subjected the 
young woman, I found that she was a hypnotic 
subject, that she was impressible, and that her 
personality as Ottilie Rosenhagen is practically 
without any memories of the past. But we 
could not discover any trace of any other personality. 
She rejects as ridiculous the suggestion that she 
is not Ottilie Rosenhagen. That proves nothing, 
in the special circumstances we are considering. 
She might or might not still be Helene Cour- 
voisier. But the theory on which we have been 
working presupposes a crime so unique that, 
quite frankly, to be entirely convinced I want to 
come upon some trace of a submerged person- 
ality which tallies with your assertion. If she 
is Helene Courvoisier that personality ' is cer- 
tainly there. But how are we going to get at 
it ? " 

Vincent shook his head. 

" I cannot imagine," he said, wearily. 

He looked up to see Chassaigne staring in 
astonishment at the door behind his chair. 
Startled, he twisted himself round to see what 
was happening — and gasped. 

Framed in the doorway, a dressing-gown over " 
her night-attire, her dark hair loose over her 
shoulders, was the young woman. In her hand 
was a bedroom candle, alight. Her face was 
expressionless and placid. Her eyes were open, 
looked fixedly in front of her. She moved into 
the room with a gliding step. 

" She is asleep ! " whispered Chassaigne. 
" Speak to her, Vincent ! Who knows ? Per- 
haps another stratum of personality ! " 

The young woman glided straight towards 
the lieutenant, who gripped at the arm of his 
chair in his emotion. She was close upon him 
ere he could force hiruseif tc speech. 


THE LIEUTENANT, BENT OVER HIM, KISSED ^.^ | V^ff WX 'Jl^^f tttSM 1 !* ^ 



" H61ene I " he said in a tense, low voice, 
looking up into her eyes as if trying to bring her 
dream down to him. " Do you know me ? " 

She bent over him, kissed him softly upon the 

" Maxime I " she murmured, her tone vibrant 
with tender affection. " Maxime ! You have 
been away so long ! " 

She spoke in French ! 

Chassaigne jumped in his chair, but before he 
could utter a word a new voice spoke sharply. 

" Ottilie ! " 

The two officers turned to the doorway to see 
Dr. Breidenbach standing there, his face clouded 
with menace, his eyes angry. 

The young woman started, looked wildly 
about her in the bewilderment of one suddenly 
aroused from sleep. Then, after one horrified 
glance at her attire, an amazed stare at the two- 
officers, she sank down on to a chair and covered 
her face with her hands. Trembling violently 
with every nerve of her body she crouched 
there in a misery of shame, too overwhelmed to 
utter a sound. 

The German advanced into the room, stood 
over her. 

" Ottilie ! Come away at once ! " 

Vincent, now on his feet, flushed with rage 
at the brutal tone of the command, compre- 
hensible enough to him despite his ignorance of 
the language. 

Chassaigne went quietly behind the German, 
locked the door, and slipped the key in his 

Breidenbach, his eyes fixed on the girl, re- 
iterated his command. 

11 Monsieur ! " broke from Vincent in an angry 
expostulation which ignored his comrade's 
gesture to silence. 

The German looked round upon them, forcing 
his face to a smile in which the vivid blue eyes 
behind the pince-nez failed to participate. 

" You are certainly entitled to some explana- 
tion of this unseemly occurrence, gentlemen/' 
he said, in French. His voice, perfectly con- 
trolled and reinforcing his smile, suggested an 
appreciation of piquancy in this equivocal 
situation, invited the sense of humour of the 
Gallic temperament. " I need not tell you that 
Fraulein Rosenhagen is entirely innocent of any 
intent to disturb you. She is, I may say, under 
my medical care. She suffers from somnam- 
bulism, and you will understand that it is 
comprehensible she should wander to this 
room, where she is accustomed to receive 

Vincent, with difficulty, controlled himself to 
silence in obedience to his friend's warning 
glance. Chassaigne stepped forward. 

" Quite, monsieur," he said, easily, smiling as 
though he fully appreciated the position from all 
points of view. " A case of abnormal sub- 
conscious activity. I am myself greatly inter- 
ested, professionally, in this common neuro- 
pathological symptom. May I suggest that, 
since your patient has come here in response to 
an obscure instinctive desire for the accustomed 
treatment of which she is doubtless in need, you 

now satisfy her ? I should esteem it a privilege 
to assist at a demonstration of your methods." 

The German's eyes flashed a suspicion that 
was instantly veiled. 

" The hour is late, monsieur," he said, coldly. 

Chassaigne shrugged his shouJdeTs good- 

" In our profession, monsieur — the service of 
humanity," he said with sly malice, " one is on 
duty at all hours." 

The German's eyes expressed frank hostility'. 

" I do not consider it advisable," he said. 
His tone was curt. 

Chassaigne glanced at the young woman still 
crouched upon the chair. 

"As a professional man of some experience, 
monsieur," he said, imperturbably, " I do not 
agree with you. I feel sure your patient would 
benefit by it. Let me beg of you ! " 

The German trembled with sudden anger. 

M This is an unwarrantable interference, 
monsieur ! The patient is in my charge. I 
decline absolutely ! " He turned to the girl. 
' Come, Ottilie ! " he added, in German. 

She ventured a shrinking glance up at him, 
stirred as if to rise. 

Chassaigne raised his hand in a gesture which 
checked her. His eyes met the German's in a 
direct challenge. 

" Unreasonable as it sounds, monsieur, I have 
set my heart upon witnessing your methods. 
It is a whim of the conqueror — the force of which 
you, who have served in Belgium, will ap- 
preciate." His right hand slid into the pocket 
of his tunic. " I must insist ! " 

" I refuse, then ! " The German was livid 
with rage. He turned and plucked the girl 
violently from her seat. " Out of my way, 
monsieur I " 

Dragging the girl after him, he took two steps 
towards the doer — and stopped suddenly. Two 
more steps would have brought him into contact 
with the muzzle of the revolver which Chas- 
saigne levelled at him. 

" Foreseeing your possible ill-humour, mon- 
sieur," said the Frenchman, with a mocking 
suavity, " I took the precaution of locking the 
door. This young woman has inspired me with 
so violent an interest that I cannot bear to see 
her suffer unrelieved. And I might remind you 
that should you unfortunately lose your life by 
the accidental explosion of this revolver — I 
should find it comparatively easy to restore her 
to complete mental health myself." 

The German glared at him. 

" I do not understand you ! " 

" You do — perfectly ! " Chassaigne turned to 
his friend. " Vincent, conduct that young lady 
to a chair ! " 

The girl, who had been released by the German 
in the first shock of his surprise, stood paralyzed 
with terror, staring speechlessly at the revolver 
in Chassaigne's hand. Unresistingly, she allowed 
herself -to be led to a seat by the young man, who 
was as speechless as she. 

Chassaigne nodded satisfaction. 

" Good ! INow, Vincent, draw your revolver 
and cover this gentleman yourself. Be careful 




to hit him in a vital spot, should you be com- 
pelled to fire. JJ 

Vincent obeyed with alacrity, dandling the 
heavy weapon with fingers that evidently itched 
to pull the trigger, 
. " Monsieur/' said Chassaigne with grim 
courtesy to the German, who had remained 
motionless under the menace of the revolver, 
" I invite you to take a seat. You may keep 
your hands on your knees, but do not move 
them until I give permission." 

The German sat down heavily, his eyes gleam- 
ing evilly at the Frenchman. 

" Now, monsieur/* said Chassaigne, in succinct 
tones, " since you say you do not understand, I 
will be more explicit. I desire that you should 
induce in this young woman the hypnotic trance 
which is your habitual treatment for her in- 
dispos it ic m — — ' ' 

A gleam of cunning flitted in the German's 

M Very well," he said, with sulky submission. 
" If you insist 1 |J 

" But with this difference/* continued Chas- 

saigne, " that your habitual suggestion shall be 

The German started — controlled himself 

'* I do not understand/' he said, maintaining 
his pose of sulkiness. 

'* I mean that instead of suggesting to her that 
she is and always has been Ottilie Rosenhagen 
— you suggest to her that she is really Helene 
Courvoisier, a French girl deported from Lille ! " 

The muscles stood out suddenly upon the 
German's lean jaws, even as, with a strength oi 
will Chassaigne could not but admire, he smiled 
mockingly into his adversary's face, 

" You rave, monsieur I " he said, and hi? tone 
emphasized the insult. 

" Rave or not/ 1 replied Chassaigne, calmly, 
11 I want you to try the experiment. It is a 
whim of mine." He handled the revolver 

" And if I refuse ? " 

" I shall shoot you ! " 

The German Unfilled out right. 

WR$tfY<»/lia«Kj3*|man. " 

" ottUWIV 




Frenchmen have gone mad. They pretend that 
you are not Ottilie Rosenhagen but a French 
girl — and they want to take you from me ! " 

The girl sprang from her seat with a cry of 
horror, rushed to him, and flung her arms about 

" Oh, no, no ! " she cried. " I am German — 
I am German — I was never anything but Ger- 
man ! Oh, don't take me away from him ! I 
love him ! I love him ! He is ail I have in the 
world ! " 

Vincent watched the action with jealous rage. 

" My God ! " he muttered. " I shall kill him 
in another moment if this goes on ! " 

The German smiled at them triumphantly. 

" You see, gentlemen ! Your suggestion is 
fantastic ! This girl is my fiancie, and she is 
German to the core I " 

Chassaigne's face was stern. 

" Vincent ! Remove the lady ! " 

The young man had to tear her by force from 
the German, who remained immobile in his 
chair in a mocking respect for the revolver. 

" Fantastic or not," said Chassaigne, " I de- 
mand that you try the experiment. If you 
refuse — it is because you dare not do it ! " 

The German shrugged his shoulders. 

" Very good, monsieur. I refuse. Think 
what you will ! " 

Chassaigne drew his watch from his pocket. 

" I give you three minutes to decide," he said. 
" Vincent 1 Put the lady in that arm-chair 
and be ready to shoot when I give the word. 
Two bullets are more sure than one ! " 

The girl, dazed with fright, looking as though 
she were in some awful dream, collapsed nerve- 
lessly into the chair. Vincent posted himself 
by the German's side, his levelled revolver held 
just out of reach of a sudden snatch. 

The German tried one more expostulation. 

" This is madness ! " he cried. " You surely 
do not propose to commit a cold-blooded 
murder ! " 

" One ! " said Chassaigne, grimly. " Two 
more minutes, monsieur ! " 

The German laughed diabolically. 

" Very well, then ! Commit your murder ! 
Much will it profit you ! I am the only man in 
the world who can influence that young woman. 
Whatever you may think, you cannot transform 
her personality. Ottilie Rosenhagen she is and 
Ottilie Rosenhagen she will remain ! " 

" Two ! " said Chassaigne. 

" You may as well shoot now ! Don't wait 
for the third ! " jeered the German. " I deny 
that she is other than Ottilie Rosenhagen. I 
utterly refuse to experiment upon her at your 
dictation. Shoot ! I defy you ! " The man 
certainly did not lack courage. He smiled 
mockingly as Chassaigne's revolver rose slowly 
and deliberately to a level with his eyes. 
" Shoot ! Outrage for outrage, your murder of 
a German civilian may well balance the deporta- 
tions you prate about I " It was significant that 
in this fateful crisis it should be that particular 
crime which occurred to him for parity. 



The taunt seemed to strike the spark of an 
idea in Chassaigne's brain. Still menacing the 
German with his revolver, he held out the key 
of the door in his left hand. 

" Vincent ! In Dr. Breidenbach's hall there 
is a telephone. A hundred yards away there 
is a post of infantry. Ring up the com- 
mandant, tell him that I have arrested Dr. 
Breidenbach on the charge of abducting a French 
subject, ask him to send along an armed escort 
at. once — not less than half-a-dozen I " He 
glanced at the girl, who was apparently in a swoon 
upon her chair. "It is important that the 
force should be imposing ! Hurry I " 

Vincent snatched at the key, dashed from the 

The German smiled in grim contempt. 
Chassaigne, still covering him with the revolver, 
smiled back, not less grimly. They waited in a 
complete silence, through minute after minute. 
The girl upon the chair did not stir. 

Suddenly they heard the rhythmic tramp of 
a body of armed men on the gravel outside, a 
sharp voice of command, and then, after a brief 
pause, the heavy multiple tramp again, re- 
sounding through the house, louder and louder 
in its approach. 

At the sound the girl sat up brusquely, stared 
wild-eyed at the door. 

It was flung open. Vincent entered, pointed 
out the girl to the French officer who accompanied 
him, evidently in confirmation of a statement 
made outside. The officer barked an order. A 
file of helmeted infantrymen, bayoneted rifles 
at the slope, marched heavily into the room. 
The girl shrieked. 

" Oh, no !-no ! Don't take me I " she cried — 
and her cry was French ! " Don't take me ! I 
will not go 1 I will not go ! " She sprang up 
from the chair, looked frenziedly around the 
room in a terror-stricken search for an avenue 
of escape. Her eyes fell upon Vincent, remained 
curiously fixed upon him. 

Suddenly, with a cry of recognition, she 
rushed into his aims. " Maxime ! Maxime ! 
Protect me ! Oh, don't let them take me ! 
Don't let them take mel" 

Chassaigne smiled. He had won. As he 
expected, the shock of this armed entry, so 
vividly recalling the night of terror in Lille when 
the girl-victims were snatched from their 
violated homes, had sufficed to re-awaken the 
personality which had then agonized in its last 
moments of freedom. 

Vincent enfolded her, murmuring reassuring 
words as he caressed the head that hid itself upon 
his breast. Her body shook with violent sobs. 

The German stood up, placed himself, with a 
shrug of •the shoulders, between the double file 
of infantrymen. The officer produced a note- 
book, asked a few questions of Chassaigne, 
jotted down the replies. He turned to the girl. 

" Your name, mademoiselle ? M 

She looked up. 

" H61ene Courvoisier/' she replied, unhesi~ 

Original from 



irjQumour nicKs 

URS is an awful 
past — accord 
ing to the peo 
pie who boast 
of knowing 
more about our 
affairs than wc 
know ourselves* We were 
warned what would happen, 
after it became known that 
we had stolen away to a 
registry office ' + down Brent' 
ford way/' where we had been 
united for better or worse- 
Seymour was the " villain" of 
the piece ; Ellaline the- inno- 
cent, unfortunate " victim/' 
who had thrown herself away 
and entirely mined her career. 
That Irish stew and Bur- 
gundy, which comprised 
our wedding breakfast at 
the Caf£ Monico, should 
have been a meat of 
tears, melancholy, and 
regrets instead of one of 
unalloyed joy. Light- 
heartedly wc embarked 
on the great adventure. 
We were young, roman- 
tic, ambitious, and full 
of hope for the future. 
The only fly in the oint- 
ment at the time was 
that William Terriss had 
not given his consent to 
the marriage. In fact, 
he had forbidden it, and 

Phot*, w 






Phut*. Ami fata »i rf BawjWW. 

had he been in London at the 
time, it is probable that a cer- 
tain proposal which was made, 
accepted, and discussed 
with excited happiness 
twenty-five years ago in 
a carriage on the Under- 
ground Railway would 
have resulted in long 
and impatient waiting. 
But he was in America. 
A dutiful daughter, how- 
ever, urged by an im- 
patient wooer, thought 
it advisable to cable : — - 
" Dearest Father — May 
T be engaged to Seymour 
Hicks ? Love, Eixa/ 1 
Anxiously we waited the 
It came : " Cer- 

SEYMOUK HICKS IN A CHILDREN jOljgifl 3 1 fffl^' 

^Wl^SITYOFyeMAting, Father/' 


Photo* F. C. Bird, Bath, 1 - 



That meant months before wc could 
even become engaged. Obviously im- 
possible, to lovelorn two-and twenty. 
Aided and abetted by a loving mother, 
we bought a special licence, went 
down to Brentford in the worst - 
looking hansom I have ever seen, 
and got married, At that 
time we were both appearing 
at the Court Theatre under 
the management of our i»ld 
friend and benefactor, Arthur 
Chudleigh, who had intro- 
duced the M villain ,J to the 
__, " victim '* in the first place. 

His face, when we broke the 
news of our marriage to him 
during that night's pcrfurm- 
* ance, was a study* 

" Why. hang it/* he said, 
" I wanted to marry the 
girl myself.*' 
With some trepidation we 





awaited the return oE the "stern father/* By that time, 
however, our fortunes had, thanks to offers made to us 
by George Ed warden for the Gaiety, improved to such an 
extent that within a few weeks of our marriage we had 
an income of two thousand five hundred a year. " Breezy 
BUI/ 1 as everyone called him, was so pleased when he 
returned with the excellent financial prospects the Gaiety 
contracts gave us that, although he wished we had waited, 
he slapped the ** villain ' h on the back, kissed the " victim/* 
and told her she deserved all the good luck she got. 

He was one* of the most genial of souls, and everybody 
loved him. But he could administer a hard knock when 
occasion required. 

11 Dear Mr. Terras/* wrote a wholesale provision -dealer, 
" could you let me have a box or four stalls to see * The 
Harbour Lights f ? Thanking you in anticipation, I am, 

whljw*. yn Urs etc-j j Armttage. ,p . |4= 

r * 'C^SkJST^O IP* this example oMlHJJ^WKHdil effrontery of dead- 
J ^ea>is, Terrias r#HWERSITYOF MICHIGAN 





' r Dear Mr* Armitage, \mmt 

—With all the pleasure 
in the world, and would 
you let me have two 
dozen eggs, a side of 
bacon, and a dozen 
pots of jam for home 
use ? Thanking you, 
but without the 
slightest an ticipation, 
I am, yours, etc., 
William Terrtss." 

We were fortunate 
in our real friends — 
the friends that count 
— those who, by their 
kindly i merest , coun- 
sel, and practical help, 
assisted us on our 

The opportunity to 
pay tribute to those 
real friends cannot be 
resisted* Barrie, the 
kindest and gentlest of 
critics, the man who 
never made an enemjf 
in his life ; Gillette, the 
ever-urbane, the proto- 
type of the gentle, cyn- 
ical Sherlock Holmes 
he so wonderfully por- 
trayed ; Charlie Brook- 
tie Id, whose witticisms 
have_ been fathered on 
to hundreds of dull- 
ards ; Frohman, king 
of managers ; Gil- 
bert, greatest of 
librettists ; Irving, 
the autocrat ; Mrs. 
Kendal, "Ma K/ 1 
as we were wont to 
call her, the greatest 
of stage-mistresses ; 
Pinero, who loves his 
gibe ; Toole, the 
innocent joker; Tree 
and Wyndharn, 

best of Garrick members — all these and many 
others, whom we omit owing to limits of space 
and not lack of thought, we are proud to think 
of as among our greatest friends. 

Gillette we first met when we went to America, 
before opening at the Gaiety. He is a charming 
and delightful man, and it was when he asked 
us both to go and spend a holiday on his steam 
sea-going house boat -yacht, Pretty Polly, in which 
speed was sacrificed to comfort, that lie told 
us this story. 

He had left New York about a fortnight, and 
had arrived by gentle stages at a point which 
would have taken a fast boat about two days, 
and the seafaring wag, noticing the speed of the 
comfortable craft beneath him, sang out : "Hi J 
mister, "when did you leave New York ? M "On the 
third of the month," replied Gillette. " Really ? " 
shouted the sailor again. " What year ? " 

Barrie was our theatrical fairy godfather, 

and perhaps the quiet rebuke he once 

administered to his child, Seymour, is the 

best example of his gentle art of teaching 

a lesson. The occasion was the production 

of his first play, " Walker, London/' The 

first night was a huge success, 

-and the flattering notices next 

day caused not a few swelled 

heads » Not the least swollen was 

that of a young man named Hicks. 

who, when Barrie asked him if 

he would go down to Sandwich 

to play cricket for him against 

the local fire brigade, said he 

would be delighted, but it was 

quite impossible, as he would not 

be able to get back to London in 

time to act at night. 

" Oh ( don't "bother about that," 
said Barrie, smilingly, " You can 
put on an understudy." 

We have often tried to imagine 






the agonies Barrie must have 
suffered when he watched 
us at the first rehearsals 
of our favourite play 
" Quality Street." A-s 
time went <m P he 
never said very 
much, and we 
thought everything 
was satisfactory . 
About tlie end of 
the third week, 
however, as we 
were lunching 
one day, he said : 
" It is all very 
good, your read- 
ing of the play, 
but I think I 
should alter the 
whole idea." He 
made this mo- 
mentous remark 
as calmly as 
though he were 
telling us we 
should have a 
change o i 

Gr an vi 1 le 
Barker, too, no 
doubt appreci- 
ated quite as 
much as we did 
the delicate shaft 
aimed at him by 
Barrie at a cer- 
tain rehearsal . 
Barke r was 
rather inclined 
to expect the 
ordinary actor to 
be as finished an 
artiste as him- 
self, and to con* 
vey by look and 
movement possi- 
bilities that the dialogue did not 
suggest, Barrie waited ft while, and 
then quietly called out to one of 
the actors : — 

11 Mr. Smith, would you mi ml 
coming slowly down the stage, and 
when you have said your lines, I 
want you to turn your back to 
the audience and convey to them 
that you have *a brother who 
drinks port in Shropshire/' 

Irving and "Ma K. f " too, were 
our good sponsors. The " victim " 
recalls her first meeting with Irving 
when he was living at The Gran go K 
Hammersmith, and taking part in 
a little play for the amusement of 
Ellen Terry and himself, the cast 
including Gordon Craig, Edit- Terry, 
and Viol e t Van br u gh . \ Vh icli recti 1 .-, 
to the " villain'' a memorable visit 

he paid one Sunday afternoon, with Toole. 
Irving, and Pinero, to George Meredith at 
Buxhil), and a remark of the great novelist 
which he has never forgotten. 

Irving was discussing the condition 

of the stage and the lack of rising 

actresses with Meredith. " Ah ! my 

dear Irving." said he, as he shook 

hands at parting, " we have no young 

actresses now ; they are all vulgar 

young women who laugh from their 


Irving, too, had a sly dig at 
the " villain " after seeing him in 
a French farce. 

" Well, you're at the comedy 



m duke/- UNIVERSITY Of WICTHfllt fioMU 



game, I see, eh ? Do you know, you remind me of 
Charles Mathews ; very like him, very." 

" I'm so glad," replied the proud Hicks. 

" Yes," he continued, " you wear the same 
sort of collars ! " 

With regard to " Ma K.," the Matron of the 
Drama, she frightened the " villain " to death 
in his early days. " Act ! How can you hope to 
act, my dear Hicks, before you know how to 
walk the stage ? " She -taught him to walk it — 
taught him all he knew ; which may not be 
much, but it is not her fault. 

"Why did you move then?" was a thing 
she often said, and if the reply was " I don't 
know," she would rap out, " Then for Heaven's 
sake keep still unless you have a reason." Her 
remarks on stage pauses, too, were illuminating. 
Her motto was : " Never pause on the stage 
unless it is necessary ; but if you do pause, 
pause for an hour if you want to." 

The old Gaiety days, however, were our 
happiest. What a happy family we were — 
Harry Monkhouse, Arthur Williams, Edmund 
Payne, George Grossmith, Junr., Connie Ediss, 
Katie Seymour, and Ethel Haydon, with " Ri " 
Edwardes smiling genially .upon us. Occasionally 
we find ourselves humming Leslie Stuart's first 
success, " Louisiana Lou," the " victim's " chief 
song in " The Shop Girl," and " Her Golden 
Hair was Hanging Down her Back," which the 
" villain " had the good luck to pick up in 
America, and which helped to establish him at 
the Gaiety. 

What memories they recall, and what a nasty 
knock the " villain " received one Monday night 
for his audacity towards one of the show girls 
in " The Shop Girl " ! She was an incorrigible 
talker, and on this particular night was relating 
a week-end experience so loudly while he sang 
about the girl and the hair, that he determined 
to give her a lesson. 

" One moment," he said to Iva.i Caryll, who 
was conducting. The band stopped suddenly. 
" Dear lady," he said, turning to her, intending 
to frighten her out of her wits, " will you finish 
your story or shall I finish my song ? " Not 
the least taken aback, she stepped down to his 
side and said : " Do you know, dearie, it's a 
matter of the utmost indifference to me what 
you do." And the " villain " retired with his 
tail between his legs, while the house rocked. 

The nastiest of all, however, was when the 
" villain " was pursuing the innocent " victim " 
at the Court Theatre between the performances 
of " The Other Fellow." 

" A young gentleman by the name of Hicks 
played the part of the other brother," wrote 
that prince of critics, Clement Scott. " No 
doubt he will become a real idol of the public, 
for he shouts so loudly that they will always be 
able to hear him by standing outside on the 
pavement, and will never be obliged to pay to 
go in and see him." 

And both got nasty knocks when we made a 
second visit to America — the " villain " in 
" The Shop Girl " and the " victim " in " His 
Excellency the Governor." Owing to the success 
we had made of various songs and business 
Vol. lviil-2. 

imported from America, we had acquired the 
rather unfair reputation of taking all we could 
lay our hands on. Consequently there was a 
mild campaign against us, and we were tickled 
when someone christened the " villain " " Steal- 
more Bricks," and the newspapers came out 
with such headlines as " Canadians Beware — 
Seymour Hicks is in town. Padlock your gags," 
or*" Nail everything you have ; Hicks, the real 
live broncho man, is among you." 

One thing we did annex while we were there ; 
that was a farce — " A Night Out " — which had 
been refused by all the English managers. We 
persuaded Frohman to let us. take it to London, 
and it ran for six hundred nights at the Vaude- 
ville, clearing in town and provinces thirty-two 
thousand pounds in profit. 

Talking .of personal comments, the best story 
we can call to mind is that of an unrehearsed 
incident at the Richmond Theatre, which we 
enjoyed not so many years ago. 

A gentleman who was playing the part of • the 
Cardinal, in " Under the Red Robe," was 
extremely bad. The audience had been fidgety 
throughout the evening. At the end of the 
last act all the characters in the play attack 
the Cardinal, and he, finding himself alone 
and without power, turns on his tormentors, 
crying : " Am I, then, only a howling pelican 
in the wilderness ? " A man in the pit rose, 
saying : " Oh, is that it ? I've been wondering 
what the deuce you were all the evening." 

Frohman was our closest friend, and nothing 
gave us so much pleasure as when we received 
a wire from him saying that he had concluded 
an agreement with the Messrs. Gatti by which 
we were to be under his joint direction with them 
at the Vaudeville Theatre for five years. The 
arrangement continued at the Vaudeville Theatre 
and afterwards at the Aldwych for ten years — 
the busiest of our life. 

• The production of such plays as " Alice in 
Fairyland," " Bluebell," " Sweet and Twenty," 
"The Earl and the Girl," "The Beauty of 
Bath," " The Gay Gordons," " The Catch of the 
Season," and others, entailed such an enormous 
amount of work that it left us little time for 
anything but a desire for rest. However, we 
had the consolation of knowing that they were 
years crowded with success. The last-mentioned 
play will ever be a happy memory to us, for it 
was during the run of that piece that our 
daughter Betty was born. 

It was Frohman who told us the best stories 
of Barrie. 

" A little man — wise, whimsical, and witty. 
He is as simple as a shepherd-boy, and as 
shy as a young girl just home from a 
boarding-school," was his description of the 

" I once went to Kensington to dine with 
him," he told us, " hoping to talk over some 
points in ' The Little Minister.' During the 
two hours I was there he didn't utter more than 
twenty sentences, and only two of these related 
to ' The little Minister/ They were exactly 
alike, and consisted of two words, ' Quite 

right UPwTrOl nruFMli L H Ifci A N 



'VE always 
heard " — the 
lady cashier 
s p< > ke with 
detachment — 
"that those 
who know 
firearms are the 
It*s the same with 



most about 
most careful, 
mountaineering, and— 

■ fi Babies ! " interjected 





boats, and 

Flushing ever so slightly, Gertrude Cardigan 
opened her cash book and took up her pen, 
murmuring as though it were an afterthought : 
" You seem rather careless.' J 

It was his turn to flush ; youthful vanity had 
not quite deserted him. He took his rebuke in 
good part, however ; his exposition of the use of 
the weapon had certainly been a little florid . 

" I deserve it," he admitted. " But you 
asked me to show you, didn't you ? " 

" I hope you have a gun licence ? " — sbe con- 
tinued her raillery. " That would make it 
safer, wouldn't it ? " 

" We don't call them guns in the— — " 

11 You* re not in the Army now, You're in 
the Bank/' 

He grunted — began an exclamation. 

" Stop I " she said, " This is not the Officers* 
Mtss, Now put it away, there's a good Jittle 
boy. Unload 1 Dismiss I Get on with your 
work \ Or rather, give it to me — most dangerous 
weapon for one so young. No, better put it in 
my drawer yourself- — of course, I'm frightened 
to touch it. You shall have it back when it's 
time for you to go home/' 

Speechless and admiring, ex-Captain Ralph 
Warrender, MC, gazed for a moment at the 
ttazing little lady. Then, to humour her, he 
put the service revolver carefully away in the 
back of her cash drawer. 

" The four-five -five cartridges too," she said, 
affecting the superior tone of the expert — she 
had never heard of them till three minutes ago. 

He laughed and obeyed , then stooped and 
jerked a £100 bag of silver from floor to counter 
(surprisingly easier, this, than it was five years 
since I), untied the neck, tipped out the money! 
and threw the empty bag under his desk. 

" You're right," he said. 
" Work's the word* Last day 
of the year ; we'll get it in the 

" What are you going to do 
with it ? " she asked after a 
minute's silence. 

" Fourteen, eighteen, twenty/' 
muttered Warrender, flicking the 
florins into his hand, " What ? The neck ? Oh, 
the revolver. Pawn it 1 Anything for an honest 
living. ShaVt want it any more. Better with- 
out it. Five, ten, fifteen, nineteen, and ones 
twenty* Don't chatter while I'm counting." And 
he added another little pile of silver to the phalanx 
growing up on the mahogany before him. 

" Hoity, toity ! You're not in charge of a 
Chinese Labour Battalion now, sir I " cried 
the girl. 

" Never was, thank goodness- My manners 
have gone to pieces— if I ever had any. Sorry." 

When the first hundred was counted out and 
tucked away in £$ paper bags, he heaved up 
another for himself and one for her. 

M You* re a good fellow after all, 1 

" Too heavy for the weaker sex- 
pounds avoirdupois, to be precise." 

She chose to ignore the chaff in his remark. 
11 They break me up — or, rather did, before you 
came/' she said. " I'm ever so grateful." 

" Pas de quoi t m*S£lle / " 

" But I am« Come back all the nasty things 
I said about the pistol/' 

M You didn't, and you couldn't," he answered, 
with perilous warmth, 

" Very well, I have wings, 
about it. Did you do jerks ? 

" Yes, rather, when I was in the ranks. Car- 
ried ammunition - boxes too. Lord, what a 
weight 1 You got used to it r though/' 

11 All the better for nir." Tit r smile wrenched 
his heart. 

Presently the customers began to come in, 
and the two cashiers had no more time for banter ; 
they were pretty well snowed under. 

The branch was sadly shorthand ed. Two at 
the counter instead of three, and two clerks 
instead of four behind ; the accountant and the 
apprentice away with 'tfu ; the manager holding 
on by EttWffi^V^AKWiAN^ ta in brf " 

said she, 
-twenty- five 

We won't quarrel 



They worked in grim silence till lunch-time, 
ran out in turns, leaving their desks piled up 
with stuff ; back again, and instantly in the 
thick of it — taking in, paying out, counting, 
weighing, calling for passbooks, explaining, 
advising ; cool, concentrated, courteous, ever 
on the watch for the insidious stumer, the 
stopped cheque, the forged Bradbury. 

It was a battle of two against an army ad- 
vancing in continuous waves, with a never- 
ending stream of reinforcements behind it. 

From time to time Warrender turned to glance 
at the lagging clock ; his expression of resent- 
ment would have been comical if either of the 
groaning clerks had been looking for humour. 
They were not. 

At last the minute-hand edged up to closing 

Before it quite touched, Warrender paused in 
the act of examining a credit slip. 

" Jones I" he called, gazing across the office 
to where the resident messenger sat musing on 
his high stool. 

" Jones ! " more insistently. 

Jones sat up with a jerk. The cashier caught 
his eye and looked significantly at the clock. 

" R. D." he muttered. Jones slid off his 
stool and marched with stately step to the 
street door, closed it, and stood by to let the 
remaining customers out. In five minutes the 
counter was clear. 

Warrender breathed deeply. " What a dog- 
fight 1 " he gasped. " You're bon cashier and 
. no mistake," he added, looking at her with whole- 
hearted respect. " Dashed if you haven't 
taken in more stuff than I have myself," and he 
glanced at the mountain of cheques on her desk. 

" Language, come ! " she said, with a shadowy 
smile ; then climbed on her stool and attacked 
her cashbook with swift, unflurried pen. 

It took them a solid half- hour to enter up 
their books. Then they balanced their cash and 
got it down below into the safe, with the 
reluctant assistance of Jones. 

" Always was a bit sorry for himself ; taciturn 
old blighter ! " said Warrender, as they mounted 
the stairs together. 

" He's not exactly chatty," she answered. 
Her voice had lost its fresh timbre of the morn- 

Warrender looked into her face. The glow 
was gone from her cheeks, the provoking sparkle 
from her eyes. " You're tired, aren't you ? " 
he asked, with concern. " No wonder. Get 
along to the women's quarters and have a rest 
and a smoke. I'll send out for some tea." 

" That'll be lovely ! " 

" Wish you didn't have to stay to-night." 

" Nonsense I I'll be as fresh as a lark, 

When she was gone the manager came up. 

" Miss Cardigan looks fagged," he said. " If 
she'd rather go home . . . ." He paused and 
scratched his head. 

" She won't, sir. Wild tanks wouldn't drag 
her away before we've got out the balance." 
- " The women are splendid," said the manager. 
" I was dead against them at first, but now I 

should be very sorry to lose them. I'll run out 
for a snack now and count the cash when I come 

" Right-o, sir I " said Warrender. " We'll get 
on with the Clean Cash Book." 

Again the manager hesitated. " It's irregular, ' ' 
he said, doubtfully. " But there's nobody else 
to do it." He shrugged his shoulders and went 

" Letters ready, Jones," the junior clerk 
shouted across the office. 

Jones looked up with a pained expression ; 
then, silent and aggrieved, he took the bag and 
went off to the post. 

Coming back by the short cut through a 
neighbouring court, he heard his name called 
from a doorway. 

" Mr. Jones — good evening, sir. Last night 
of the year — I suppose you bankers '11 be burning 
the midnight oil as usual ? " 

" I 'ate these balance nights," said Jones. 

" Don't wonder. Too much of it, eh ? Have 
one before you go in ? " 

" I sha'n't say tio, Triplow," said Jones, a 
little mollified. Then savagely again : " But 
I take precious good care / don't do much." 

" Not likely. Why should you ? You've 
done enough in your time." 

Jones's spirit was soothed. He could swallow 
much flattery. 

His friend was a man of his own height and 
build, though younger. Their acquaintance 
was not of long standing — five or six weeks at 
the most — but it had that genial touch which 
springs from regular association in the same 
private bar, where the curious likeness between 
the two men gave rise to much simple jocularity. 
Triplow, for his part, had had considerable 
success in drawing out Jones, who thus acquired 
a certain eminence among the habituis which 
he had not previously enjoyed. Jones attri- 
buted this pleasant change primarily to his own 
merit ; at the same time it disposed him kindly 
towards the younger man. 

. They had a beer apiece, and the glasses were 
refilled. Triplow now drew the messenger aside. 

" I want to ask a favour, Mr. Jones," he said. 
Jones contrived to conceal his enthusiasm. 
Triplow lowered his voice and winked. " Matter 
of a little legacy," he said. Jones endeavoured 
to show that his previous coldness was only 

" There's one or two papers to sign," continued 
Triplow, confidentially. " I'd like you to have 
a squint at 'em if you will — you're a business 
man ; you'll get the hang of it in two shakes of 
a lamb's. tail." 

Jones raised his glass and spoke : " Here's 
wishing many years to enjoy it." He took a 
draught, looked at Triplow, and made a grimace. 

" Thanks, friend," said Triplow. " You're 
right ; it is a bit thin. Have something in it to 
warm it up ! Do ! " 

He took the glass from Jones's unresisting 
hand, carried it to the bar and had a double gin 
added to the been. r ■ ■ ■ — ■_■ ■ - , u 

" Now that's wortk drinking I " cried Jones, 
smacking his lips. Indeed, so good was it that 



Triplow had little difficulty in persuading him 
to " try just one more — it's a poor heart that 
never rejoices. 1 ' The legatee himself drank the 
thin beer with nothing to it* 

The bank messenger was not one who believed 
in putting himself about for the benefit of his 
friends, but in this case vanity, cupidity, and 
clog's nose combined to overcome his principles* 
He magnanimously consented to step across the 
court to Tri plow's place and give his expert 
advice in the matter of the little legacy. His 
face glowed in the cold night air> 

" It's a bit dim," said Triplow, " We'll soon 
get a light though.- Let me go first." 

Ho took out his latchkey, turned into a dark 
passage and threw open a door, then stood 
civilly aside* 

** Age before honesty/' he said, jocosely. 

" Straight on ; that's right — now one step up" 

Jones lifted his foot and trod heavily — on 

air, for the step was not up but down. Triplow 

following close behind bumped hard into him. 

A startled exclamation broke from the mes- 
senger's lips* He flung out his arms to save 
himself, clutched at space, plunged forward, 
and fell head first on the floor of Triplow 's room* 
Triplow stepped quickly inside and bolted the 
door. The room was perfectly dark. 

" Hurt, old man ? ft he asked, with assumed 
anxiety* u Did you miss your footing ? " 
Without waiting for an answer he added : kh Try 
a sniff of this—it'll pull you round quicker than 
anything*" Saying which he stooped, felt for 
the face of the prostrate man, and clapped a 
soaked handkerchief to his nose. 

Jones, half drunk and half stunned, had no 
thought to resist the sweet, insidious vapour ; 
nor was he in a condition to do so if: he would- 
He took a deep breath, then another* As con- 
sciousness faded, he raised a feeble hand to push 
away the thing that was submerging him ; but 
it was too late. Triplow easily put the hand 
aside and the sinking man acquiesced : he 
moved no more* The chloroformer re -wet ted the 

After some minutes he stood up and lit the 

E-ls. Returning to the body, he first appro- 
priated the banks keys, then with some trouble 
divested the prostrate Jones of his plum-coloured 
swallowtail and trousers* ye I low- striped waist- 
eoati dickie, necktie* and boots. 

Next he took a hank of cord and tied Jones's 
legs together above the ankles ; in like manner 
he bound his arms behind his back. He also 
forced open his mouth and slipped a wiMiden gag 
between the teeth. Then he threw off his own 
clothes, dropping them on Jones, and dressed 
himself up in the antique but telling livery of 
the Kingdom Bank. 

Walking over to the mirror, he opened a little 
wooden box and proceeded to ' ' make-u p his f ace, J ' 
He handled the paints deftly, with only an 
occasional glance at the figure on the floor. 
After three or four minutes' work his hair was 
grey, his face lined and blotchy. He took down 
the glass, stood over the body and, studying the 
upturned features intently, compared the in with 
his own. Satisfied, he picked up Jones's silk 
hat from the floor, brushed it with his sleeve, 
and put it on. 

Final IVh he put the keys in Ii is pocket, picked 
up Jones's tetter- bag, and took a quick but 
comprehensive look round the room. His eye 
lighted on his overcoat ; he took it down and 
threw it over Jones, Went out and locked the 

Three minutes brought him to the bank. He 
let himself in with Jones's key, and simulating 
Jones's rather pompous deportment walked 
across the nffice to Jones's desk. He hung up 
Jones's hat on its peg, sat down on Jones's stool, 
took up Jones's evening paper and began to 
read, even as did Jones, invariably, when any 
late work was toward in the office. 

The two cashiers, man and girl, glanced up. 
but that was all. They had finished their tea 
and were grappling with the Clean Cash Book, 
This august tome, full bound in red leather with 
its name in golden letters on the back and side, 
lay open on. the counter. Other volumes of 
heroic magnitude but less nobly decorated lay 
piled about 





The two clerks, 
having struggled 
through the day's 
work proper, were 
battening on buns at 
a neighbouring tea- 
shop, fortifying them- 
selves for a heavy 
night with ledgers 
and passbooks. They 
cheered their sorrow 
by speculating on the 
prospect of overtime 
pay (it may be re* 
marked that the pro- 
spect was black) and 
intermittently abusing 
the apprentice — cub- 
like and insufferable 
at all times — for his 
impudence in having 
*flu on balance night. 

The manager came 
in from his hasty 

M I'll count the cash 
now, Mr- Warcender/' 
he said. 

i( Right, sir/' answered Ralph. " Confounded 
nuisance," he growled under his breath. "Can 
ynu carry on, Miss Cardigan ? Don't- bust 
yourself over it. JP 

" Leave it to rac," said Gertrude, airily, 

Ralph grinned and hurried off, muttering to 
himself as he went : " Little sport ! Blow the 
accountant ! Blow the Bank f Blow every- 
body — bar one ! +p 

Down below, producing separate keys, they 
unlocked the strong-room, hauled back the mas- 
sive door, switched on the Light, and went inside* 
Similarly they unlocked the inner cash safe. A 
pair of brass cash scales stood on a broad steel 
shelf. Ralph took out the cash— bundle after 
bundle of notes, orange bags of gold, dirty white 
bags of silver, paper rolls of plebeian copper — - 
and dumped it on the shelf- 

The manager began to count. 

** I've applied to H, O. for assistance/' he 
observed, between two bundles of notes. " We 
can't go on like this. Somebody should be here 
on Thursday. What a nuisance this paper 
money is, to be sure I " 

" Takes a lot of counting, sir." 

The manager's oniy answer was to damp his 
finger and bend again to the work, while the 
cashier watched attentively, with a fresh bundle 
in his hand. 

Meanwhile, In the office above* the false Jones 
got oil his stool and solemnly drew down the 
blinds, Gertrude looked up in mild surprise, for, 
since Armistice night, the real Jones had stead- 
fastly refrained from such unnecessary exertion, 
But she wasted no thought on the matter. 

Triplow then wandered across the office to the 
staircase and went downstairs- He took up 
Jones's bucket of wetted sawdust, placed it 
noisily on the platform of the hydraulic lift, and 
raised the lever. Up went the lift, blocking the 




square railed space in 
the office floor. 

" What's that ? " 
said the manager, his 
nerves all ajar, 

" Only Jones going 
to sweep up/' said 
Warrender, looking 
out into the corridor. 
When Triplow walked 
past the strong-room 
door on his way to 
fetch the broom they 
were intent on their 
work, their backs to 
the door and their 
heads bent over the 
steel shelf. 

In a moment Trip- 
low came leisurely 
back. He carried no 
broom, however. His 
right hand was feeling 
in the pocket of Jones's 
waistcoat, and instead 
of walking past the 
strong- room he turned 
sharply into it. 
Physiologically considered, the sudden transi- 
tion from the lethargic condition of a Jones to 
the intense activity of a wild beast was remark- 
able. Unfortunately for themselves, the man- 
ager and his cashier were not in a position to 
observe this interesting phenomenon. 

Wliipping out his hand and raising it above 
his head, Triplow delivered two lightning blows 
of tigerish power and precision on the bent necks 
of the bankers. Almost simultaneously, and 
without a cry. they fell forward on the steel shelf 
as though to cover with their inert bodies the 
treasure which they could no longer protect 
with mind and hand. 

Triplow put down his weapon — a leather- 
covered lead paper-weight from Jones's desk — 
seized the men in turn under the armpits, and 
laid them on the floor, dr wing them inside as 
far as the dimensions of the strong-room alio wed- 
Then he felt under the shelf and pulled out two 
strong leather handbags, of the kind which banks 
use for carrying notes and specie. His hours 
with Jones in the Blue Boar had not been 

Gertrude, poring over the Clean Cash Book 
with pencil and a scrap of paper covered with 
figures, heard nothing from the underground 
regions of the bank, thanks to Tri plow's criminal 
precaution and executive skill- At least, she 
would have said — and subsequently did say — 
that she heard nothing. More probably a hyper- 
sense of hearing detected a change in the quality 
of the silence* w 

Or possibly — sensitive, sympathetic, vibrant 
inheritor of the magical quintessence of woman 
as she was — some faculty of perception uvea 
more refined and elusive apprised her brain of 
something which it had not the power to inter- 
pret. And this hypothesis is the more feasible 
in th^t^'iE^ was much 








m the ascendant over the flagging body. More- 
over, disguise it as she might, her heart was very 
tender towards her gallant confrire. 

The simple fact is that, for no reason which she 
could have given, she paused in her work, put 
down her pencil, and walked softly across to the 
staircase. She was conscious neither of fear nor 
even of apprehension ; it was simply that she 
must go and look. So she tiptoed down the 
stairs until, by bending over, she could peer 
along the passage to the strong-room. What 
she saw made her heart stand still. 

Two pairs of feet lay across the threshold — 
she knew whose they must be. Limp, abnormal, 
pathetic, they shocked her the more because she 

must imagine the rest. Ah ! was he— ? She 

drove the worst thought from her. 

Above and astride of them stood Jones (as she 
thought) — the treacherous fiend !— packing notes 
and gold into a handbag. The callousness 
evident in his collected demeanour and methodi- 
cal movements chilled her blood. 

Instinctively her lips parted, but before the 
cry could come her quick brain sprang into com- 
mand r she forced her lips together and pressed 
them tight. Then, ever so lightly, while her eyes 
watched the enemy, she stepped backwards up 
the stairs and ran, striving against panic, to the 
street door, 

$he turned the knob. To her surprise and 
relief, she felt it give inwards, and, as she 
naturally drew back, a well-dressed man wear- 
ing a top-hat and dark overcoat stepped 
quickly over the threshold and closed the door 

She was' panting from exertion and excitement, 
and spoke hurriedly between gasps : " He's 
robbing the safe ! I think he's killed the man- ^ 
ager and — oh, please fetch a police " 

A large hand was over her mouth, a powerful 
arm round her waist, and she was pushed help- 
lessly back into the office. 

" 1 know all about it," said a businesslike 
voice, with an undernote of fierceness in it, while 
hard eyes stared into hers. " If you holler it'll 
be the worse for you and the others too. Go 
back and keep quiet." 

For answer she struggled desperately and tore 
at his hand. 

" Oh, very well, if you won't " The pres- 
sure on her mouth and nostrils increased, her- 
metically sealing her lungs. Compared with his, 
her strength # was nothing. She could not 
breathe ; her chest was bursting ; her head 
began to swim. In terror of fainting, she nodded 
her head. The hand was withdrawn. 

" Now you go behind there and mind what I 

said. If you don't " She read the ruth- 

le sness of the man in his voice. 

But she was one of those to whom a command 
is the signal for revolt. Bruised and sickened as 
she was by his detestable handling, resentment 
flamed up and revived her. She marshalled her 
wits, her eyes glittered — decidedly they were not 
eyes of the vanquished* Her brain was groping 
for something, something she knew might help — 
if she could only think what it was ! Screaming 
would be worse than useless ; and, anyhow, she 

had given her word and preferred to keep it, even 
with a ruffian. 

Triplow, that accomplished criminal dressed 
as Jones, now came upstairs and marched calmly 
through the office from the stair-head on his way 
to the street door, a weighty bag in either hand. 
He betrayed no excitement, though he saw, of 
course, that something had gone awry, other- 
wise why was his confederate in the office at all ? 
It was a contingency which he had foreseen, 
however, and his arrangerdents were apparently 
working perfectly well. 

Watchful and cunning, he read the girl's face 
as he passed. He perceived the glint of fire, in 
her eye, the resolution in her firm - shut lips ; 
knew also as b/ divination that she had pierced 
his disguise, and recognized the consummate self- 
control which enabled her to suppress any out- 
ward sign of her discovery. 

Triplow had a keen scent for danger, and never 
ignored it, even from so fragile a quarter as this. 
He shot a composite glance of inquiry and warn- 
ing at the silk-hatted one. 

" O. K., Charlie," said the latter, readily inter- 
preting the signal ; " I'm fly." He lifted his 
hand to the level of the counter, and a small 
polished pistol flashed in the light. 

Gertrude saw it and started in alarm, then 
felt her brain leap and grasp that for which it 
had been groping. The service revolver ! 

Her pulses raced. Could she ? Dare she ? 
She was the only one now ; the honour of the 
branch, of them all, was in her hands ; if she 

failed She thought, as she had never ceased 

to think, of the brave dear lad lying helple s 
down there. If only he were here ! Ah 1 she 
must, she would act worthily ! The danger to 
herself .from these brutes, if she should cross 
them — that was nothing. 

Cunning against cunning ! Simulating despair, 
she leaned against her desk and covered her 
face with her hands. Her sigh was not entirely 
wasted. Then, obviously seeking diversion from 
her misery, she languidly pulled open her drawer 
and began to grope at the back of it. 

From the street came the sound of a taxi-cab 
drawing up opposite the bank ^ind throbbing 

" All right outside, Tom ? " asked Triplow, in 
a low voice, as he passed the other. 

" That's Nip, Charlie." 

" I'll get the stuff in. You watch the girl. 
There's nobody else." 

Gertrude (how she blessed Ralph for his in- 
structions of the morning) had cautiously opened 
the breech and fitted two stumpy cartridges to 
the cylinder, when Tom, suddenly suspicious, 
lifted his pistol. 

" Put up your hands ! " he ordered, sharply. 

She kept her nerve. She snapped the breech 
shut and her left hand went up, empty ; but her 
right held the service revolver — pointed at the 

Her hand was shaking ; the weapon was 
heavy. She clutched it desperately, with her 
finger on the trigger. 

" Crash ! " In the confined space of the office 
the reporc *;vas terrilac. 


Unaccustomed to the sound of firearms, she 
thought the walls and ceiling must be tumbling 
in. Her wrist was surely broken and her arm 
paralyzed I She was badly scared, and had a 
wild desire to throw the venomous weapon away 
from her and flee. 

Tom ducked, with an oath, but not before he 
had felt the heavy bullet fly buzzing past his 
ear, The shock to his nerves caused him to 

2r* " 

Triplow at the street dooi\ one bag on the mat 

and a hand on the door-knob, stopped dead when 

he heard the first crash. His eyes were on the 

scanc within, but his ears were straining |ot 

sounds from without. Yet the office bell did not 

clang, nor was there any thundering at the panels 

of the door. Nobody had heard, thanks partly 

to the solid walls, closed windows, and drawn 

blinds, but chiefly to the taxi-cab thudding in 

the gutter, according to orders. Once 

more the arch -criminal had cause to 

congratulate himself on his prevision. 

He waited till he saw the girl fall 

I jack against her stool, her face pallid, 

her delicate head drooping. Then he 

opened the street door, carried the 

forget himself so far as to use an expression best 
confined to the kennels. 

Pushing the muzzle of his pocket pistol through 
the brass grille and taking careful aim, he fired 
at the girl. 

** Ping I " It was like a popgun after the loud 
detonation of the -45, But the tiny bullet found 
its mark. A spot of crimson appeared on the 
sleeve of Gertrude's putty-coloured jumper close 
up to the shoulder, The revolver dropped from 
her hand and clattered on the counter. 






two bags across the pavement, and deposited 
them in the cab. 

A policeman came strolling along the pave- 
ment. Had he heard anything ? Would he 
twig the game ? 

Triplow took the bull by the horns. 

" Will yon stand by for a minute, mate ? " he 
said. ,+ There's a lot o' stuff there. Boss']] be 
out presently/* 

" A little bit o' that would. do me all right," 
said the constable, facetiously, 

" You're too late, mate/' Triplow responded, 
in the same vein.-' " Why didn't vou aslc me last 
&>xinglMV ; E 5 R':iT^[gMfiill , bAWay then," 



While the attention of the policeman was thus 
genially engaged, Tom, with his pistol still 
pointed at the half-fainting girl, walked back- 
wards to the door ; he was taking no more risks. 
Before he went out he slipped the pistol into his 
pocket and straightened his hat. As he did so 
his ear detected some new sound in the rear of 
r the quiet office. He snapped the door and 
walked briskly to the cab. 

" Thanks, officer," said the nimble-witted 
rascal masquerading as a trusted banker's clerk. 
He dropped a shilling into the policeman's ready 
palm. " Good night." 

Triplow was already in the cab and Tom 
stepped in after him. The driver was watching 
with the tail of his eye ; his hand went to the 

Ralph Warrender, emerging from nothingness, 
found himself in his dug-out in the region of the 
Sonune. He was weary ; excessively, disas- 
trously weary ; so weary that he could move 
neither hand nor foot, nor scarcely think. That 
shot he had heard — the shot that must have 
woke him — was it an attack ? He forgot, but 
he knew what he had to do, because — he had 
done it all once before ; yes, it was when he got 
his decoration. He must get out to his men ! 
There were weights on his eyes ; they would not 
open, fist he must move, that was quite certain, 
and he ought to move now. . . . Gertrude was 
out there, too, waiting for him. . . . Yes. he 
was an officer, he must be with his men ; it was 
his duty. 

When he gpt that word he felt better, more 
confident ; he cliing to it. Duty ! How heavy 
his limbs were, how his head ached ! Duty ! 
Then what was he waiting for ? His course was 
quite clear ; there was nothing else in the world 
that he need consider. Duty ! 

He wrenched open his eyelids. Curious light 
in the dug-out — and his pal still asleep ! But, 
of course, it was not the dug-out : it was the 
strong-room, and that must be the manager. 
But why was ? 

He was ^wake now, and his eyes sought the 
cash safe. It was open and empty. His mind 
was clearing : the shelf, of course ! It was bare. 

He got up and staggered to the staircase with 
numbed legs. He forced his feet to lift, while 
his brain scrabbled at the mists of uncertainty. 
What had happened ? Where was Gertrude, 

and was she safe, or ? His thoughts were 


At last he reached the top. Thank goodness 
it was level walking now. Across the office he 
heard the street door close. Otherwise all was 
silence. The lights burned uselessly. 

Another step, and the counter came into view, 
and there — thank Heaven ! 

"Gertrude !" * 

Gertrude, sinking into the depths, faintly heard 
his cry, and her spirit harked back to him. He 
*as at her side now. 

" Gertrude ! You're hurt ! " He was all 

By a noble effort she rallied her waning forces 
to a semblance of vigour. 

" It's nothing. Quick, they've only just 
gone ! " Then, mindful of his safety, she pointed 
at the revolver. " Be careful, one's got a pistol. 
Take that. It's loaded — one hole. The other 
one went off. I'll wait here for you." And she 
put her hand on his arm and feebly pushed him 

Her touch thrilled him. He grabbed the 
revolver and hastened to the door. His strength 
came rapidly back : her voice was like a draught 
of wine. The fighting spirit blazed up in him. 
He was curiously conscious that he was now him- 
self — and had not been. 

The policeman, gratified by his shilling, was 
civilly shutting the cab door ; the windows were 
up. Nip had seen to that. 

" Good night, sir," he said to Tom. " What, 
'urt yourself, sir ? " He had caught sight of a 
trickle of blood down the side of Tom's face. 

Tom had not the least idea that he was bleed- 
ing, but, guided by the constable's gaze, he put 
up his hand and felt the stickiness on his cheek. 
He improvised readily. 

" Yes, cut myself shaving," he said, carelessly. 
" Beastly mess, isn't it ? " 

To put it vulgarly, there were no spots on 
Constable Reed. His eye travelled upwards. 
41 But you didn't make that round 'ole in yer 'at 
shaving," he commented, pointedly. 

As he spoke the door of the bank opened with 
a slam, and the constable, glancing behind him, 
saw Ralph appear with the revolver in his hand. 

" 'Ere," he said, briskly, pulling the cab door 
open again, " Wot's the game ? Funny time o' 
night, ain't it, to be shiftin' oof ? 'Old up, 
cabby ! " 

For the driver had spun round in his seat, 
grabbed the lever, and wrenched at his steering 
wheel. The cab began to move towards the 
middle of the road. 

Police-constable Reed, not to be shaken off so 
easily, sprang on to the step. His nose came 
into contact with the muzzle of Tom's pistol. 
Involuntarily he drew back, just as Triplow, 
reaching in front of Tom, struck the constable a 
powerful blow in the pit of the stomach. 

The big policeman, losing his hold and his 
balance, fell over backwards and went down 
sprawling ir^the roadway. 

Perhaps it was a blessing, however much dis- 
guised. For, as he fell, Ralph Warrender, stand- 
ing on the bank doorstep, brought up his revolver 
and fired. His hand was steady, but his eyes 
were orbs of fury. Was his judgment under 
control, as his muscles were ? Perhaps not, for 
he was seething with vengeance for the injury 
done to Gertrude ; his brain still ached from 
Triplow's blow ; and he was fresh from a sphere 
where the ethics of killing did not concern him. 

It was a fine shot and a lucky one, for the 
bullet passed through the open doorway of the 
cab, smashed the front window, and struck the 
driver. Nip's head dropped forward. The cab, 
gathering way, reached the top of the camber 
and then, instead of turning into its proper line 
of traffic, careered across the road and charged 
the rear wheel of a brewer's dray. 



A torrent of husky profanity pouted down 
from the box of the dray* The purple-faced 
drayman, swathed enormously in boxdoth coat 
and comforter, and strapped fast in his seat, 
had enough to do to hold in his plunging team r 
without looking round to see what had happened- 
Nevertheless, he cursed on richly and steadily, 
without undue repetition or trace of fatigue. His 
vocabulary was amazing. 

Presently, however* 
finding his verbal efforts 
unsuccessful in removing 
the obstruction to his 
wheels* he succeeded by 
a series of spasmodic 
movements in twisting 
his head round until he 
could look behind him. 
When he saw the chauf- 
feur humped, uncouth 
and gruesome, over the 
steering wheel, he broke 
off in the middle of an 
expression, unhooked him- 
self, and, descending with 
amazing agility, ran to 
take a hand in the sport 
the gods had sent him. 

No sooner had the cab 
struck than Tom snatched 
up a bag and was out on 
the road in a jiiTy, ready 
to run. Triplow was in 
the act of following — his 
own side was jammed 
against the dray — when 
Constable Reed, savage 
fiom his fall, charged up 
and threw himself on 
Tom, grabbing his pistol 
and driving him back- 
wards on Triplow. Tom 
lost his footing and fell 
against the step. Triplow 
reeled under the impact, 
but instantly recovered 
himself and came again, 
demoniac with energy, 
cold fury in his face. 

Avoiding his pah he 
sprang like a tiger at the 
policeman. Reed was no 
coward and did not 
flinch, but he was not 

quick enough for this demon, He lunged at Trip- 
low's jaw, but Triplow dodged the blow in mid -air, 
darted one hand at Reed's throat, clapped the 
other over his face, and, with the advantage in 
weight which his descent from the cab gave him, 
bore the constable backwards. Reed went down 
again. Triplow left him lying and darted off like 
a streak. Torn was unavoidably prevented from 
following ; the drayman was sitting on him. 

Warrender dared not leave the bank un- 
guarded. Not without joy he surveyed the 
quick drama of confusion and violence from the 
vantage point of the doorstep. When Triplow 
broke away he raised his revolver again, then 

remembered it was empty, changed his hold from 
butt to barrel, and hurled it at the thief. 

Triplow seemed to have eyes all round his head ; 
he saw it coming, craned forward, and saved his 
skull. Never slackening his pace, he dashed into 
the ill-lighted court and was no more seen. 

A City populace has a vulture instinct for a 
row. Running because they saw others run, 





people were gathering miraculously from all 
directions, eager for a front seat at whatever 
show was goiiig. Along with them came sundry 

Ralph signalled to one of these, left him at the 
bank door h and pushed into the crowd. He found 
an inspector already in charge and the situation 
well in hand — Tom satisfactorily handcuffed, the 
muney-bags under guard, the unconscious driver 
laid out on the ground. A constable was just 
diving of! for a stretcher ; another was in col- 
loquy with the purple drayman, laboriously 
comniit^ingr to i his notebook an expurgated 
ve ft io n o' f Tua t 1 wo rt hy "s u bse r vat ions . 




After a few words with the inspector, Ralph 
wormed his way out of the crowd and hurried 
back to the bank* He was oppressed with 

fi I'll shut the door, constable," he said, 
"Ring the bell when you want me." 

Through the glass panel of the inner swing 
4oor his eye sought the spot where he had left 

her. She was not there, He burst into the 
office. Save for the callous ticking of the clock, 
it was silent as the grave, and to all appearance 
as empty of life. 

M Gertrude 1 Gertrude, dear I " He spoke in- 
voluntarily, and the whimper in his voice was 
like a sting to him, With set teeth, though tears 
were in his eyes, he ran to the wicket, slammed 
through it. 

Stretched on the floor behind the counter lay 
the lady cashier. So white, so still ! — she who 
this very morning was quick and bright as life 
itself. Her coronet of nut-brown hair was in the 

The sleeve of her jumper was clinging wet- 
Ralph dropped on his knees, cut the wrist with 
his penknife — then rent the dainty stuff up to 
the armpit. Near the shoulder was a tiny wound 
mark, and below and around it the glistening 
silk of her skin was smeared with a grisly slime 
of blood. He pulled out his handkerchief and 
began to fold it into a bandage, then flung it 

aside, jumped up, 
and began rummag- 
ing in his drawer. 

" Thank God ! " 
he cried t and was 
down on his knees 
again beside her. 
This time he held 
in his hand a little 
yellow package* 
stained and dirty; 
it was a first held 
dressing, relic of 
other days. He 
ripped it open, 
smashed the iodine 
ampoule, and gently 
dabbed the good 
brown stuff on the 
wound. Then he 
laid on the pad and 
bound her arm with 
hands that trembled 
— so round and 
soft and beautiful 
it was ! 

He was fastening 
the safety-pin when 
a movement caught 
his eye. Glancing 
up at her face, he 
saw that her eyes 
were open and that 
she was looking at 
him. He was glad, 
gladder than he had 
ever been in all his 

For one moment 
her eyes twinkled 
like far-distant 
stars* Her voice 
came faint and 

"How dare you 
call me Gertrude I ** 
she whispered, and the tired lids dropped 
again. But the smile stayed flickering and, 
as he watched, a tiny tear-drop came shining 
through the brown la hes, and he was glad — 
oh. glad I 

He covered her up with his jacket, went to 
the telephone, and rang up the bank doctor. 
He made his message very urgent. In the act 
of hanging up the receiver he suddenly put it to 
his ear again, 

" Are you there ? JP he called. " Oh 1 I forgot 
to say they knotlitd en 2 the manager too. 




Flyweight Champion of the World. 

Mrs + Wilde is responsible, in a large measure, 
for keeping mc fit, for she knows exactly how to 
feed me* She has studied my require incuts so 
closely that nothing escapes her notice that 
might add to my comfort and well-being, I am 

not a food faddist. 
Plain, wholesome food 
suits me best, and 
plenty of it. I am 
not much to look at, 
but have a fondness 
for the knife and fork. 
Outdoor life and 
plenty of golf. That 
is my secret of keep- 
ing fit. I always 
train at Tylorstown, 
and find the air of the 
Welsh mountains very 
beneficial. Weather 
permitting, I start 
the day with a couple of rounds on the local 
links, owned by the Mid-Rhondda Golf Club- 
It is an eighteen -hole course, and by the time I 
have covered it twice I feel quite ready for a 
square feed. After a rest I go to the gymnasium,, 
where I put in some real hard work— skipping, 
ball-punching, and shadow-boxing -before I take 
on my sparring partners. A series of strenuous 
bouts is followed by massage, the operator 
working me for about an hour, at the end of 
which I feel capable of going through the whole 
performance again, Then I ha\'e some more 
recreation, on the principle that all work and no 
play makes Jack a dull boy, Two hundred up 
on the billiard table makes me fit and ready for 
bed, and I often feel that I could sleep the clock 
round, ^_^_ 

Profession al Tennis Champion, who is fifty -four 
years of age. 

The secret of keep* 

ing fit is not to over- 
train. I do not believe 

in the special training 
processes which get 
one out of the normal 
stride and force an 
artificial condition for 
a given occasion. I 
have always made it 
a practice to do myself 
well, as it were — that 
is, feed well in con- 
junction with regular 

On the days of my big matches 1 have a good 
meal about eleven o'clock in the morning, as it 
is not good to eat heavily just before playing. I 
find raw meat a fine aid to stamina. Half a 
pound of raw minced steak, without any fat or 
gristle, some Worcester sauce, two new-laid eggs, 
with a roll, form my repast, and it is not over- 
doing it, as i am always ready for another good 
meal after play. 

I have not denied myself smoking and the 
other good things of life. If one keeps in regular 
exercise at the game one enjoys, not indulging 
in it when too tired, it is all-sufficient. Then 
there will be no need for long walks, which so 
many people consider essential to keeping in 
good health. 

My favourite occupation on a holiday is fishing. 
It is restful for both mind and body. Another 
great asset to the middle-aged man's health is 
not to worry too much about himself. I fre- 
quently suffer from sleeplessness and have lain 
awake all night. I just take it philosophically, 
read a book, and I get up next day as fit as a 

The best way to enjoy enduring fitness is to 
work well, play well, feed well, and don't let 
things worry you. 

England** Champion Sculler. 

The would-be scull- 
ing champion must 
keep fit if he is to do 
any good . Personal ! \\ 
I find that a two-miles 
run before breakfast, 
followed by a good, 
stiff rub * down K is 
about the best start 
to a day. After break- 
fast I have a good 
hour on the river, 
paced by a double- 
sculler. Then another 
rub-down and breath- 
ing exercises. In the afternoon I have another 
turn on the river, and that about finishes the 
day. In the early stages of training I indulge in 
some wrestling and boxing, but I have to stop 
that afterwards, as a sprain would be fatal to rnv. 



World's Champion Runner. 

I have never trained but in the one fashion, 
and that is to rise at about seven-thirty a.m.. 
and, after going through about ten minutes* 
free exercise, tc diesis quickly and get out of 



going at about four and 
a half miles an hour. 
All walks should be 
done at this pace* 

I have generally 
made a point of get- 
ting up at half-past 
seven , as I usually go 
to bed about ten- 
thirty p.m. I believe 
in having at least 
nine hours' sleep. I 
would put the mini- 
mum period of rest 
necessary as being 
from eight and a half 
to nine hours, and would advise all to govern 
their waking and sleeping houn* by this rule. 

The preliminary exercise should be as free as 
possible. An exerciser or chest expander might 
be employed if desired, though I would suggest 
that preference be given to Indian clubs, light 
dumb-bells, or absolutely free movements. 

A fairly substantial breakfast of eggs N a little 
fish, dry toast, and coffee in preference to tea, 
might be followed by a four or five mile spin on 
the track, which distance should be increased to 
eight miles once or twice a week. 

Lunch at about one o'clock. This should be 
fairly substantial. A steak, or plain roast or 
boiled beef or mutton, fruit, milk puddings, and 
a sufficiency of green vegetables. No potatoes. 
Stale bread or, preferably, dry toast. One glass 
of old ale will be found about the best thing to 
drink, or, if an absolute teetotaller, a cup of 
Bovril or coffee. 

Then, about three o'clock, my method is to 
go back to the track and put in the afternoon 
work, which consists of three-mile runs for the 
first week, eight or ten miles during the second, 
and two-mile bursts for the third. 

It is most important to observe regular hours 
throughout. Meals should be taken at the 
same time every day, and the times for going to 
bed and rising should also be strictly the name. 

Rest on Sundays altogether, You will cer- 
tainly feel strongly inclined for the lazy-off and 
will certainly not suffer thereby. 

This training, it may be objected, is no doubt 
admirable for the man with plenty of leisure, 
but not for one who has to attend an office or 
other place of business. Well obviously, the 
latter can't possibly adhere strictly to it ; but, 
revertheless, it should not be impossible for him 
to approximate thereto as nearly as he can. For 
instance, he can take his early morning walk, 
and after breakfast can walk sharply to business 
(or some part of the way) + His meals should 
also be regular. Let him get down to the track 
about six p.m. r or as near thereto as he can 
manage, and put in a good run every night, and 
he will soon find a difference in his health and 

I have generally contrived to keep myself 
pretty fit during the summer by sticking to 
cricket. The tip-and-run variety of the game 
is good fun and good practice, while the more 
serious side is not devoid of use. ' 

The only two outdoor sports which I would 
condemn for athletes are cycling and swimming. 
Swimming is wonderfully healthy. I know, and 
is an excellent* method of developing the chest 
and lungs, but it nevertheless does make a man 
slow, since it stiffens his leg muscles. 

Cycling, however, is about the worst form of 
exercise for a running man. The muscles 
developed thereby are positively inimical to 
running. They grow fixed and hard, and hamper 
all quick movements terribly. Besides which a 
runner wants a Jong, steady stride, not a series 
of little steps such as cycling encourages. 

World's Champion Sculler* 

To my mind the best and easiest means of 
keeping lit is to become a cyclist and boxer. 
Perhaps 1 am prejudiced in favour of cycling, 
because I used to do a great deal of cycle racing. 
Undoubtedly it helped me largely to win the 
rowing championship of the world, I believe 
in plenty of any exercise which suits you, 
however, Don't overdo it, whether it is boxing, 
cricliet, football, tennis, swimming, or golf. 

Study your constitu- 
tion and work accord- 
ingly. Boxing is a 
splendid exercise for 
keeping fit, for it de- 
velops practically the 
whole of the body. 

With regard to food 
— well, what suits me 
won't suit you, per* 
haps. Moderation is 
the keynote in ordin- 
ary times, but when 
in training I am very 
strict with myself. 
As a rule I am up 
before six o'clock in the morning, and after tea 
and dry toast go for a five- mile walk. I keep 
up the pace and climb a stiff hill, if possible* 

Breakfast consists of underdone steak, and 
more dry toast and tea. There is then an hour's 
rest before I do three or four miles sculling with 
an occasional sprint with my trainer. 

Rest and recreation, with perhaps another 
hour or so on the river, complete the day. An 
athlete is, or should be, always fit. In my own 
case my greatest worry is to keep my weight 
down. Cycling and boxing are the best helps. 

Champion Swimmer. 

While athletes in every other pastime devote 
their main attention to getting rid of superfluous 
weight, a swimmer's chief fear is that he will 
denude himself of too much of his valuable 
bone covering. 

Muscle, wind, and stamina are best built up 
by hard and regular exercise, and by a strict 
and well -regulated diet, Thta method of training, 
however,,, LwUlrraJjifturner-t^ one's tissue, 

the ver> U yir£M^ high in the 


tion Jt as required by 
system of exercises 

water, and which also 
protects the swimmer 
during long immer- 

Realizing, at a. very 
early stage in my 
career, the necessity 
of a form of exercise 
which would develop 
my muscles and gen- 
erally wind me up to 
the "pink " of perfec- 
tion, from the point 
of %-icw of " condi- 
a swimmer, I devised a 
with a pair of special 
" grips/' which has since become known as the 
" Jappy " Grip Exerciser. 

Regular " Jappy fi Grip Exercise, together 
with a fair amount of walking, comprises the 
whole of my training; that is, of course, apart 
from swimming exercise. 

Diet is by no means so important a feature 
with swimmers as it is with other athletes. 
Personally I have been a lifelong teetotaller, 
and would advise all swimmers to studiously 
avoid any excess of intoxicating liquors. Some 
swimmers do, I know, believe pretty firmly in 
old ale, port wine, sherry and eggs, etc, but 
personalty I believe it better to go without. 
Spirits certainly should be strictly barred. I 
must pic a^l guilty to indulgence in an occasional 
cigarette, but the swimmer would be well ad- 
vised to do without smoking altogether. It 
impairs his wind, which is his chief asset. 

Then I eat very little of either meat or vege- 
tables ; but this may be a peculiarity of mine. 
Eggs, fish, milk puddings, chicken, biscuits, 
Oxo, etc., provide me with the best nutriment ; 
but I would not suggest that it would suit every- 
body to follow my principles. 

Pastry and potatoes are, however, best left, 
al< me, and a man who confines himself to honest 
roast and boiled and plenty of green stuff won't 
go far wrong. 

Who swam the Channel in September, 1911, 

To the fact that I 
am a non-smoker and 
teetotaller, I attribute 
most of my powers of 
endurance. I don't 
say that it is wrong for 
an athlete to drink or 
smoke; but thty don't 
suit me, that's all. 
Work and good na- 
tural habits are, in 
my opinion, the best 
means of keeping fit. 
I trained very little 
for the Channel swim, spending practically all my 
time in my india-rubber business, working from 
six-thirty in the morning till seven at night* One 
can keep quite fit by hard work. 

I am a big eater, and do not stint myself of 

anything I fancy. Every man, however, in this 
respect is a law unto himself. Find out what 
suits you and eat it. It is just a matter of com- 
mon sense. After my Channel swim I ate four 
plates of cold lamb, vegetables, and half a fruit 
tart. It might have caused many men indi- 
gestion. But the meal was pleasingly satisfying 
to me, I do not make a habit of such big 
but I weighed at that time fifteen stone and 
measured forty-nine inches round the chest — -a 
bulk that required good feeding. And because 
I know what food suits it best, avoid excesses, 
and have carefully thought out my requirements* 
I require no special method of keeping fit. 

Heavy-weight Champion of Europe, 

There seems to 
exist to-day among 
trainers just a stereo- 
typed style of training 
boxers P irrespective of 
the physical require- 
ments of these. I 
i la t u ral \y de veloped 
many weak points in 
my composition as 
my body matured, 
but all these have 
been strengthened 
and pot in order. 
For years I suffered from soft hands, but by 
careful treatment these have now become as 
sound as hammers. The reducing or putting 
weight on boxers is general I y understood to-day, 
but even these processes must be carried out on 
scientific principles, otherwise the increase of 
one tissue may mean the decrease of others of a 
more vital character, and vice versa* The 
necessary amount of physical labour, too, should 
be gauged to a nicety, for over-working means 
** htaleness >J and lassitude. 

When doctors prescribe, they take into con- 
side ration the necessities of the case, according 
to the patient's constitution. Ill us it should be 
with a trainer. Instead of that, any old- 
fashioned routine is considered good enough in 
some cases, the result being often the spoiling of 
a boxer. Good training has often won contests, 
admitting that all other things arc equal. 

Personally, I believe in cheerful rural sur- 
roundings, with plenty of good food. Some of 
the principal assets for a boxer in training are : 
a contented mind, bright companions, well- 
chosen spariing partners, concentration of mind 
on one's work, earnestness, and faith in the 
trainer. I ha% p e found it hurtful to work too 
hard while training. That is to say, instead of 
feeling tired out at the end of a days work, one 
should, on the contrary, experience a sense of 
passive contentment, conducive to a good night's 
sleep. The boxer who overworks himself spends 
restless nights, and these play havoc with the 
nervous system. The very best of tonics is 
balmy, restful slu nibe r. 

In fact, the golden rule should be that excess 
in ajAHtl^^ll^^^JGHt^Atlo^ amusement, 


3 r 

eating, drinking* or sleeping, is bad. Modera- 
tion in all things should be the boxer's motto. 
Personally, I am fond of a cigar, and invariably 
indulge up till within ten days" of a contest for 
which I am training. Then everything of a 
lowering order is banished, and I place myself 
completely and unconditionally in the hands of 
my trainer-manager, Descamps* 

There is a far too great tendency in most 
boxers to believe that the more work they do 
the better their chances of victory. What really 
leads to success is just enough physical work, 
with plenty of brain activity* The man who 
just goes through his training routine mechanic- 
ally, that is to say. just because he has to, does 
not derive the lull benefit of his work. It is 
the thoughtful, scrupulous boxer who succeeds. 


erit Open Golf Champion, And! six times 
holder of the title. 

There is no golden 
rule for keeping fit. 
What suits one per- 
son might be quite 
harmful to another. 
I have no strict rules 
in regard to myself. 
I am not a tee- 
totaller, just a mode- 
rate drinker, but I 
am a very heavy 
smoker I feel no ill- 
effects of either at 
any time, however 
But I am generally in bed at ten o f clocJc, and to 
this "early to bed " rule I attribute not a 
little of my good health. 

World** Amateur Walking Champion. 

Walking itself has been fairly generally 
recognized as the most healthful of all forms of 
exercise, while the unequalled benefits to be 
derived from it are tacitly admitted by its 
adoption as the most important item of every 

athlete's preparation- 
Running men, 
boxers , swimmers, 
cyclists, wrestlers, 
etc, — one and all of 
them indulge in daily 
walks, pref e rabl y 
across country, or 
along the roads. All 
these walks, too, are 
conducted at a fair 
pace, so that I am 
disposed to fancy 
that were sufficient 
opportunities af- 
forded for eight, ten, twelve, or twenty mile 
road or cross-country walking contests, the list 
of entrants would more than satisfy the pro- 

There is, as far as I am aware, only one satis- 
factory method of training for any kind of 

walking contest, and that is by walking, I once 
had an idea that swimming might do me a bit 
of good, and so went in regularly for it* I 
thought that a daily dip in the sea could not 
fail to bring me on K but I found that 1 went back 
in pace and my health suffered. So I gave it up. 

Neither do I find cold baths agree with me, I 
used to go in for them, since I found that the 
majority of athletes did so, but I have never 
found them to agree with my constitution. 
Perhaps I am peculiar in this respect, so would 
not like to advise others to avoid either swim- 
ming or cold bathing, if they find them suitable. 

I have always been fond of a set-to with the 
gloves from boyhood, My father taught all his 
sons to box, and I have never lost my early 
liking for the sport. 

Cross-country running is another form of 
athletics of which I am rather fond, although, 
through fear of its interfering with my walking, 
I did not indulge in it too much. 

The training routine to which I confine myself 
is pretty much as follows. I commence road 
work in January, going for a te«n-mile fast 
tramp every other day, alternating with an easy 
seven or eight miles* I keep these up right 
through January and until the middle of 
February, when I get on the track and lay 
myself out trying to keep to, or, if possible, to 
cut my various records over the different dis- 

England's Lady Lawn Tennis Champion. 

I can think of no 
better way of keep- 
ing fit than by play- 
ing lawn tennis. It 
has been suggested 
that the game impairs 
the health, unduly 
taxes the strength 
of women, deprives 
them of feminine 
charm, and mars 
their beauty. So far 
from these accusa- 
tions being true, I 
think that lawn tennis in moderation imparts 
radiant health — not an unimportant factor in 

Lawn tennis, to my mind, is an ideal tonic for 
body and mind. That is why I recommend it 
as a pastime for women. It is a game not 
difficult to learn, is inexpensive, and even a 
rudimentary idea enables anyone to enjoy a 
good deal of healthy exercise. Furthermore, it 
is the only athletic pastime in which women can 
combine with and compete against men without 
in any way spoiling the game. I am convinced 
that lawn tennis has been a help and not a 
handicap to me in my working-day life* 

I never train especially for an important 
match, as I am lucky enough to have excellent 
health, although my appearance doesn't suggest 
it ; but one thine I cannot d.0 without is plenty 
of $leepUNJv£R^TiW«hl^ I always 



find a bad night means bad play the next 

Little but good plain food is what I eat 
before a match, such as steak and milky rice 

Five timei Open Golf Champion, 

I have no rules for 
keeping fit. My life 
in the open air, good, 
simple food, and ab- 
stemious living I find 
quite sufficient to keep 
me in the bodily and 
mental state that en- 
ables me to cope with 
my continuous and 
exhausting work of 
giving tuition and 
playing matches with 
a certain degree of 
success. In my experience of twenty-five years 
as golf professional I have never had occasion to 
endeavour to improve on the above, which is 
simple, inexpensive, and within the reach of all, 

Lady Amateur FoU Champion of England, 1910* 

I have sometimes been asked whether fencing 
is not too fatiguing an exercise for ladies. I say 
emphatically "No/' if wisely indulged in. 
Indeed there is no exercise which can be more 
judiciously regulated to suit the physical re- 
quirements of a woman. It will be her own 

fault if she finds her- 

Sself in any way over- 
exhausted, and when 
in training it is aston- 
ishing how much can 
be undertaken. 

To me it is always a 
little depressing when 
the fencing season is 
over, Very regret- 
fully do I put aside 
my foil in the summer, 
for though very fond 
of lawn tennis and 
swimming, I find that* 
from a health point of view, there is no exercise 
to compare with fencing. 

Headaches, depression, colds— all complaints 
seem to fly before the magic of the foil. If you 
fence earnestly and with a strong opponent, it is 
very hard work, and complete change and bath 
is, or should be, the unfailing accompaniment k 
No doubt this factor makes for that sense of 
special fitness and well-being which one ex- 
periences after visiting the fencing school, 

I have never found it necessary to observe 
any special niles of diet or exercise. Daily walks 
in the fresh air, meat once a day only, and 
plenty of fruit are, I think, the lf keynotes" to 
keeping fit. 

QigttizedJby viOOOj-' 

/*&* H r #^fl by Cfttttal Xavi, Alfred Skrulit 


Five timei holder of the Open Golf 


I don't under- 
take any special 
training, as I 
consider my or- 
dinary duties 
quite sufficient 
to keep me in 
condition. Prior 
to champion- 
ship or other 
matches, I al- 
ways endeavour 

to keep as near as possible to my usual routine 

in regard to dieting, etc. 

r- --jv 

^E^^ m 

1 ^B 

ft. ,,- 


The Great Surrey B&tsman. 

During the season the game itself keeje me 

fit. It is more strenuous than many people 

suppose, and a man who is in the field almost 

every day throughout 
the season needs little 
else . When t he wea t h e r 
j|/\ is bad we indulge in 
ping-pong in the dress - 
tag-room at the Oval. 
It calls for a good deal 
of nimblcness if keenly 
played, and is very 
excellent training lor 
hand and eye. 

I have no fads or 
fancies, and as I am 
one of the lean kind I 
can eat anything I please, I am not a teetotaller, 
but certainly I am a very moderate drinker. My 
one " vice " is tobacco, and I generally have a 
pipe between my lips when I am not playing. 
It does not seem to have any ill-effect* 

Out of season I believe in plenty of walking, 
and the addition of a bag of golf clubs makes it 
all the more enjoyable* Some people say that 
golf spoils cricket, and vice vetsd. My golf, at 
present, has not reached the stage where it is 
capable of being spoiled. 

There are- players who find it difficult to get 
fit at the commencement of the season. When 
I begin to put on flesh I suppose I> too, shall 
have to indulge in long spells of skipping and 
other irksome exercises* At present I have no 
special method of preparation beyond net 
practice. A cricketer does not need to train in 
the same way as a footballer or a runner. His 
season is long and arduous, and it is just as well 
for him to be a bit above himself, as they say 
in racing parlance, at the commencement, If 
he were too finely trained at the beginning of 
May he would probably crack up or go stale 
Ions before the end of the season. 

Moderation in all things and early hours are 
golden rules for those who would keep their 
form on the cricket field. 


Br Ernest Goodwin 



Adelesa, the young wife of an old husband, is deeply in love with Angioletto, a young man 
of her own age, who is also in love with her. He climbs one evening into her room, where they 
are nearly surprised by the husband, Domenico, who is about to depart for a journey. A ngioletto 
just has time to conceal himself in the wardrobe. On her husband's departure Angioletto emerges 
front the wardrobe and Adelesa asks him to say good-bye for ever. Then from the window they 
observe figures in the garden and imagine they are watched. " I must hide you/' she says, 
desperately, thinking her husband has returned. " He'll search till he finds you, I have it — put 
on a gown. Be a girl — a neighbour's wife ! " No sooner is the transformation effected than 
the door opens. Adelesa stares, shrinks a little towards Angioletto, and faces the door. The 
incidents now become most thrilling. 

WO men, entirely strange to her, 
were entering the room. 

Ceccolino del Ponte, first 
Duke of Brescia, had but one 
son, Alessandro. 

Alessandro was now a man 
of forty, and since his father 
had been seated in the chair, now ducal, of 
Brescian rule, he had exploited to the full, 
in the indulgence of his tastes, the powers 
and privileges attaching to his birth and station. 
It took no long time for a new-comer to Brescia 
to gather what shape those tastes assumed. He 
patronized the arts ; painting, sculpture, litera- 
ture, music, all these with taste and skill he took 
under his protection. Bat the employment of 
all other which most engaged his distinguished 
leisure was the chase of women. He was of the 
race of wretches cursed with a craving for the 
pursuit of that happiness of all joys most futile, 
leading its devotees down paths ending in inevit- 
able quagmire, over which like a will-o'-the-wisp 
the phantasmagoric illusion hovers eternally,' 
eternally allures. 

Sick at heart of his pastime, yet still avid, he 
bore an aspect that proclaimed him for what 
he was. Tall, slender, not inelegant, thin-bearded, 
with hair carefully drawn over his cranium to 
conceal his growing baldness, his every feature 
contributed to evoke a sense of repulsion. In 

VoL IviiL— 3. Copyright, 1919, by 

that face indulgence, insatiable and pitiless, had 
her seat. But he was the Duke's son, and the 
next duke. He had brains, a certain power of 
mind, and an unswerving purpose that bore him 
along almost without serious hindrance. In 
any new fancy he reckoned triumph a foregone 
conclusion, and, as Domenico had told Adelesa. 
the women of Brescia had done their best to 
confirm his confidence . And not only the women . 
The complaisant brother or father, nay, even 
the complaisant husband, was no rarity in 

Consider him then, a duke's son, with the tale 
of his triumphs in his estimation nowhere near 
its completion yet. And Ugolino, thaf swift 
hunter, his aid, counsellor, scout, pointer in 
every venture, has brought him word of fresh 
game. A rare thing — not yet twenty, unskilled 
in the ways of the world, of most moving beauty, 
and — let us laugh! — wedded to a husband of estab- 
lished years. Clearly we may take a ducal interest 
here. And now to the appetite just whetted 
comes a fresh fillip — her husband is leaving her 
for a time. Ugolino has been scouting diligently 
in his own accomplished fashion. He has the 
news and will guarantee its accuracy. This 
Domenico, poor deluded man, is leaving his wife 
unguarded for three cays. He is off to Fiesolc 
on some business or other. To night he starts. 
To add to the piquancy of the situation there is 
no doubt the good man has lately taken alarm. 

Ernest Goodwin. 



When first he brought this wife of liis to Brescia 
he had taken her out and about in the society of 
the town; had been entertained, had entertained 
in his turn. Lately, beyond all questioning, he 
had kept her close. The house had become a 
prison. Its walls and windows were now a cell 
in which this charming captive like some caged 
bird fluttered her wings, not a doubt of it, in 
passionate protest. To-night then, my lord ? 
Why not ; my lord admits himself intrigued, 
ponders a little, and languidly assents. 

^So, within an hour of midnight, behold our 
little party of pleasure on the move. Ugolino 
has provided, like the careful servant he is, a 
proper escort for the Ducal safety. The husband 
has been watched out of the house. He has 
been seen to mount and ride towards the city 
gates, and with no delay eight men, reliable 
men, used to such duties, have taken up un- 
obtrusive station, some in the street, some in 
the garden. Two of them accompany Ugolino 
to the house door, one waits with Alessandro, 
respectfully on guard till a whisper from the 
door shall hail his Excellency. 

All goes well. Entrance is soon obtained, the 
terrified servants bidden hold their peace and 
remain where Ugolino disposes them till they 
have his permission to move, and now — be 
pleased to enter my lord, and let's upstairs. 

Ugolino, short, stout, powerful, gratified sharer 
in this one at least of his master's widely diversi- 
fied interests, though of a blunter mood in action, 
enters. first, stands aside, holds the door wide, 
and Alessandro steps in. 

Adelesa had risen, Angioletto had risen. Both 
by two -phases of the same- instinct, hers for 
protection, his to yield it, had shrunk together. 
The light of the lamp shone on the two almost 
in each other's arms. 

All the artist in Alessandro stirred as he looked 
at the group of two before him, the foremost a 
fair girl, tall, hair thick- braided, face beauteous 
in the flush of surprise, a supreme grace of limb 
suggested in the pull of the folds of her rich 
blue dress. Behind her, a most admirable foil 
stood in her shadow, black-haired, creamy of 
skin, tall, too, in a flowing dress of crimson, 
flaring where the lanjplight caught it, of a warm 
and intense darkness where the shadow of the 
girl in front masked it. 

Surveying them, he felt a gush of pleasure in 
the realization of how well the group " com- 
posed," the happy excellence of its arrangement 
of colour, mass, light, and shade. It occurred 
to him that, taking a wider view, so as to 
include both himself and Ugolino in the com- 
position, here was not merely a subject, but a 
picture, already grouped and waiting only the 
wording. He glowed in the enjoyment of a 
great idea — he would have this picture painted 
for him. Lamberti, his favourite painter, now 
busied on the decoration of the exquisite altar- 
piece just set in its place in the Church of Sancta 
Croce, must suspend for a while his labour 
there and devote his genius to this subject. 
The " Annunciation " must wait — " The In- 
truders "claimed immediate attention. Lamberti, 
he reflected, with pleasure growing deeper each 

moment, would appreciate and be able to 
translate on to his canvas the spiritual significance 
of the scene. Sa fascinating was the thought 
that almost reluctantly he broke it off as speech 
from Adelesa recalled him to the business of 
the moment. The enttance of two strangers 
where she anticipated Domenico* had for the 
moment released her from the press of terror. 
Alarm she felt, but of a different texture. Here 
was unwarranted intrusion into the privacy of 
her bedroom. In the last five minutes a dis- 
covery of herself aS the married woman had 
p lent her the capacity for a present indignation. 
With dignity in every line, legitimate protest 
in her tones, she questioned them. " Sir, 
gentlemen, what is this ? ". 

Ugolino closed the door and halted there. 
This sort of inquiry, sometimes genuinely made, 
sometimes a mere pretence, was the usual 
thing. His master was skilled to deal with 
either mood. Leave this to Alessaiidro then. 
The Duke's son advanced a step or two 'with 
slow dignity, a smile, confident and ingratiating, 
displaying his long teeth. - 

"■Be reassured, jnadam, .You- are right to 
inquire the meaning of our visit, hut at the 
outset, le^rn that we intend to pffer orily the 
greatest respect." - /-:;.*-.. 

She was bewildered- " But,. sug^ my jiusband 

»» *"V 

He interrupted—" Is weljL ,*|&y'. * > That's 
certain, Ugolino ? '■ . He turned t<* \^here the 
brute at the door waited) impassive ; ^ 

" Certain, my lord." x .; ' <:. - 

" So," continued Alessaridro, *} of our /visit 
disturbs you, accept a thousand apologies r and 
my assurance that nothing on earth*shall intrude 
6n you — I may say, on us — further this night/* 
He waited a second, till the sudden little, falling 
apart of Adelesa' s lips showed him that on her 
bewilderment a vague idea of his meaning was 
breaking. He turned to Ugolin<J> with a wider- 
smile , " Assure the lady, Ugolino f " 

Ugolino fulfilled his part in the unfolding of 
the situation. . 

"Take my word for it, lady, the guard we 
have set round the house will sec to that." 

Adelesa, still bewildered, felt nevertheless as 
if a veil were being drawn aside from something 
too repulsive for her gaze. Something was 
being offered to her comprehension which her 
every iastinct refused to accept. The blood 
rushed to her cheeks, then left them white. A 
roaring sounded in her ears. She tried to keep 
up her appearance of dignity, but her knees 
were shaking. " 

" Gentlemen," she said, with all she could 
muster of firmness in her tones, " what do you 
want ? " 

" Something of graciousness from you, who 
are a very fountain of grace." 

Alessandro approached her slowly, still smiling. 
She went to step back, as he spoke, and found 
herself in contact with Angioletto, put her hand 
behind her — Angioletto slipped his hand into it. 
She tl^lreffC^pf-iigf MICHIGAN 

" Be pleased to go/' she said, boldly. 

In her eyes as she faced Alessandro was a 






w?w« r'°" BV ibe " 



rising spirit, a pride that would not easily break. 
The prospect nevertheless, of breaking it, gave 
to Alessandro 's pleasure a fresh fillip. This 
moment was a morsel he could turn over with 
his tongue, with lingering enjoyment. He gave 
the further unfolding of the meaning of his visit 
there to Ugolino, only that he might survey the 
scene with greater detachment. 

" Ugolino, make matters clear to the lady." 
Ugolino obeyed orders. He came further into 
the room and addressed Adelesa. " This gentle- 
man, ma donna, is His Excellency, Alessandro 

She stared from one man to the other. " The 
Duke's son ? " she asked. 

" So my mother says," interposed Alessandro. 
" And my good friend Ugolino has brought me 
here to see for myself the beauty all Brescia 
speaks of, and which hides itself, or is hidden, 
so jealously." 

Spite of her effort to avoid facing the facts of 
her situation, she had to make the answer that 
would evoke the disclosure she hated. 

" Be brief — what do you want ? " 

Alessandro looked at Ugolino. The fellow 

" His Excellency wants you to bear Mm com- 
pany, here to-night " He ceased as she 

flinched visibly. Alessandro finished the sen- 
tence : " On this auspicious occasion of your 
husband's absence." 

She felt Angioietto's liand press hers gently. 
Again it heartened her. She lifted her head in 
proud hostility. " My lord, go away. My hus- 
band will return shortly." It was not true. 

A pang shot through her as she thought of 
Domenico, here not a quarter of an hour ago, and 
now, all unknowing, riding steadily away, doubt 
in his heart, all unconscious that in his house his 
wife was standing at bay in face of a peril not 
even he had anticipated. She saw that when 
Domenico spoke of Ugolino and had uttered his 
warning be must have had in mind the possi- 
bility of her complicity in treachery. But here 
was something which she knew went far beyond 
what her husband had contemplated. And he 
had left her. She felt a pang of resentment. Why 
had he left her ? Why had he not foreseen ? 

Alessandro turned ^o Ugolino again, making 
inquiry, not so much to satisfy himself, but that 
Adelesa might read in the answer full knowledge 
of her helplessness. 

" Her husband is away for three days, Ugo- 
lino ? " 

" Undoubtedly — to Fiesole, my lord." 

Alessandro turned again to Adelesa, smiling, 
but wordless. His lifted eyebrows merely ques- 
tioned, " You see ? " 

Her face dropped into her hands. Beneath 
her skirts her limbs were shaking. They could 
hardly bear her weight. All she could say was, 
" My God ! Oh, my God ! " 

She had let go of Angioietto's hand, and now 
as she stood the sense of utter loneliness became 
a terrible thing. She looked round for him. 
The boy was there, not stirred from his place. 
It was she whose involuntary movement had 
placed a gap between them. 

From the first moment of the entry of Ales- 
sandro and Ugolino, Angioletto had stood motion- 
less, a pace or so behind Adelesa. As agitated 
as she, filled with a double sense of shame and 
humiliation at his situation and the device he 
had consented to adopt, lus first impulse had been 
to shelter himself behind her. Possibly less 
desperate than she, in spite of his greater peril, 
he had allowed her to speak, because it seemed 
proper that she should dominate the situation. 
But as he grasped what was afoot he felt rising 
in him the sense of a call upon what of manhood 
he believed himself to possess. More rapidly 
even than Adelesa he had sensed the meaning ol 
the intrusion, and swift on that came the cer- 
tainty that soon or late the challenge to action 
would come to him. 

At first the thought was a terrifying one, tliat 
set his limbs shivering, made his heart thump, 
his breathing furiously fast. But now, with a 
quiver of delight, he felt stirring in his breast a 
new and exhilarating sensation. 

The call was coming to him. Well, it should 
find him responsive. He felt his heart, still 
labouring, beating with a generous action. He 
felt the muscles of lus limbs tighten almost of 
their own accord, as if to assure him tliat here 
was strength waiting to respond to his will. 
What could be done he could give no guess at, 
but that his chance would come he made no 
doubt. So, retired in the shadow of Adelesa, he 
waited, eyeing Alessandro from behind her. 
Alessandro had " taken little notice of him. In 
lus dark crimson dress, his black hair cut in a 
fringe across his white forehead and falling to 
his shoulders, his delicate lips and nostrils giving 
no more than a touch of piquant masculinity to 
the smooth contour of his face, his large eyes, 
shining, brilliant, unblinking, long-lashed, gazing 
steadfastly from under his clean pencilled eye- 
brows, still he had been but a foil to the golden 
beauty of the woman Alessandro had addressed. 
And for this he still stood as Alessandro, well 
pleased at the sight of a woman's tears, broke 
the silence with a new note of gaiety. 

" Come, we are all standing." With a sort of 
expansive hospitality he seated himself on the 
couch and flung a wave of the hand to his 
follower. " Ugolino, bring us wine. Bacchus, 
no less than Eros, is worthy — and at the same 
time take, away this other lady, whose presence 

here — whose presence " he faltered, leant a 

little sideways, surveyed Angioletto. He ceased 
speaking, stared. His thin red eyebrows lifted 
a little. " Ugolino, you said nothing of this one." 

Ugolino, too, stared with him. So, dropping 
her hands from her eyes, did Adelesa. With a 
singing in lus ears, there came to Angioletto a 
great inward compelling, as of a mighty whisper, 
an urge forward, the framing in his senses of an 
overmastering call, an instinctive " Now ! " 

He stood a pace or so forward. The lamp- 
light streamed unhindered over him. A whirl 
of sensations almost swept his self-control away, 
but floating on their crest, by good chance as it 
seemed, came a sense of the humour of the situa- 
tion, just for a, second he -ad :o smother a wild 
impulse to laugh. Choking this back, his face 



flushed, his lips parted a little. " What perfect 
teeth I " reflected the ducal critic. 

Ugolino, staring with Alessandro, answered 
his master, himself in wonderment : " Bacco, 
Excellency, I never saw her before." 

Alessandro, always exigent, turned on him 
with a touch of savagery. " Yet I have left you 
your eyes — can I trust you to look for the wine ? " 
Ugolino turned red and got himself out of the 
room, cursing inwardly. He had brought 
Alessandro to see a certain woman, had filled his 
ear with her praises, and on the introduction a" 
second woman had appeared, with whom, plainly, 
Alessandro was the more interested. The credit 
of the evening's enjoyment had been reft from 

Alessandro spoke to Adelesa. She, poor 
girl, dulled in the sense of the catastrophe 
hanging over her, scarcely grasped as yet the 
alteration in the state of affairs. Yet with 
what little realization she gained there came to 
her, as to Angioletto, a sense of frantic jest. 
Looking at Angioletto she for the first time saw 
the miraculous completeness of his disguise, 
the ease with which his smooth charm had 
assumed the feminine. She realized that to 
anyone not in the secret, here was a woman 
of magic beauty. Angioletto glanced at her, 
read her mind. The young devil lifted his 
clasped hands to his breast, as he had seen her 
do, dropped his lashes over his eyes, swayed 
over till his weight poised on one hip, one foot, 
knees coyly together. Adelesa felt that if he 
made another move she would scream. 

With a grave face, eyes devouring this fresh 
object of interest, Alessandro rose and came to 
Angioletto, took his hand. Angioletto shrank 
shyly back. Alessandro, all in a glow, ques- 
tioned Adelesa. 

" A relative, madam ? " 

She stammered back all her swirling brain 
could lend her in the way of prompt answer. 
" My — my cousin." 

Alessandro beamed. " Fresh chains, fresh 
chains," he murmured, reproachfully. " Oh, 
tyrant love, must I be scourged again ? " 

To Adelesa it seemed outrageous that a man 
should be thus in error. His look, his atti- 
tude, the timbre of bis voice gave to his error 
an aspect so grotesque as to be repulsive. 

" Sir," she said, with sudden energy, " for 
Heaven's sake, leave us alone. You are wrong. 
I cannot explain — but " — she paused, helplessly. 
H? strutk in. 

" Explain no more than this — is your cousin 
married ? " 

" No, my lord," she answered. 

" And her name ? " 

" Is — is," she stopped It was not in ber 
p3wer to invent at such a moment. She threw 
a glance of appeal to Angioletto. Angioletto 
felt that the centre of the play of events was 
swinging toward him. He must speak. For- 
tunately he had had a second or two, and with 
nothing but a rather taking nervousness be 

" Maddalina, your grace." 

Alessandro found the word music, the utterance 

musical. "Maddalina," he reflected, turning 
the word over lingeringly. " Maddalina, bow 
sweet 1 And how old is Maddalina ? " 

" Eighteen," Angioletto gave him. 

" A delightful age." Alessandro released 
the hand he held and stood back a pace to 
survey the excellent beauty of this adorable 
creature. He ignored the coming and going 
of Ugolino, who, after a discreet tap at the door, 
ventured to open and enter. He brought with 
him some glasses and a flask of wine, and cioss- 
ing the room with an air of proper discretion, 
set them on the table, and again withdrew. 
Alessandro still gazing at Angioletto put out his 
hand to the flask, poured out a glass for^himself , 
lifted it to his lips. " I drink," he said, " to 
love and Maddalina." He drained the wine 
slowly, his eyes fixed on the face before him. 
" You rare thing. Have you ever loved ? " 

The mad imp whose promptings to laughter 
Angioletto had with such difficulty resisted 
now gained the mastery. Angioletto had to 
laugh. His mouth opened and gave exit to 
a ripple of merriment, touched perhaps with 
something not far from hysteria. He had to 
clap his hands to his cheeks to control his merri- 
ment, and his spoken answer came in little 
jets between the spasms of his mirth. 

" I thought so, Excellency, but I have been 
told I know nothing about it." He swept a 
glance at Adelesa as he spoke. She turned 
away in resentment at his laugh, his ease, the 
callous nonchalance of his stand and pose and 
address. In his glance, sweeping from her to 
Alessandro, there was an archness that to her 
was terrible, to Alessandro captivating. 

" You must learn," said Alessandro. " I 
shall teach you. I am a professor in this won- 
drous art of love. Have you ever kissed ? " 

" Yes," said Angioletto. He dropped his 
white eyelids bashfully. 

" I hate the man," said Alessandro, with 

" No man, my lord." Angioletto fought him- 
self to keep his mirth somewhere in leash. 

Alessandro stirred with interest. " Is thatso ? " 

" On my faith, yes." Angioletto forced his 
teeth on to his lower lip and again held the 
laugh back. Alessandro surveyed him with 
appraising eyes. 

" With those lips — and such eyes," he mur- 
mured to himself. " Maddalina, we shall drink 

He turned to the table at his elbow and very 
delicately filled two glasses from the flask. 

Up till that moment Angioletto had played 
his part with no more of purpose than the passing 
of time and the staving off of discovery. Now 
a miraculous prompting seemed to fling a light 
before him into the minutes that were to come, 
and showed him a glimpse of what must be. 
He flicked an eyelid at Adelesa. Not so much 
in response to the wordless call, but because 
her own agitation was almost unbearable she 
took the two steps that brought her to him. 
She leant her lips to his ear. 

" Angio!etco," she -""ibreathfea, " what will 
you do ? " 



Not looking at her, his smile and his eye 
fixed on Alessandro bqsy with the wine, Angio- 
letto slid his quiet answer back. 

" Get me my knife." 

As he said it, very quietly and unobtrusively 
he put out a hand behind him and touched hers, 
then relinquished it. In that second she felt 
spurt through her for a second time that evening 
a fear and a pride most strangely intermingled. 
Was this Angioletto, the boy whom she had 
rebuked not so many minutes before, with a 
mature superiority of wisdom ? The sense of 
laughter was vanished now. Looking at him 
she saw in the line of his profile something 
subtly changed. In the delicate lips and nostrils 
power and purpose were declared. Between 
this slender, this girlish Angioletto, and Domenico 
a sensation of strange likeness revealed itself 
to her astonished gaze. Even in the faint 
whisper Domenico s voice and tones had sounded. 
" Get me my knife," was the order of Angio- 
letto. Domenico had said, " My knife for the 
man that dare wrong me." He had told her 
in words that had almost moved her to tears: 
" I guard your honour with my sword, my 
life if needs be." In Angioletto's face, not all 
its smiling as it turned to Alessandro could 
hide a resolution that matched Domenicos. 
This boy would guard her honour, too, from such 
outrage as Alessandro 's at any rate. 

In exultation she obeyed him. She crossed 
over towards the wardrobe. There lay his 
sword and his dagger, hidden by her as she had 
made her hasty attempt to disguise him. Ales- 
sandro, always wary, looked up, put out a hand, 
detained her by the dress. She felt the insult 
of his touch, yet at the moment almost welcomed 
it. It was all to be paid for. Angioletto should 
have his knife. 

" You are leaving us, signora ? " queried 

She played her part well. " My lord, I must 
get a handkerchief." Truly there were tear- 
stains down her flushed face, plain for Alessandro 
to see. He could not see the joy leaping in 
her breast. 

" What a shame," he answered her, in mock 
pity, and released her. " Maddalina does not 
weep. You are not afraid of me, Maddalina ? " 

" No," came the smiling answer. Alessandro 
felt his heart glow at this boldness. This that 
looked so virginal was yet plainly meeting him 
in an answering mood. 

" Bravo ! That's the spirit for a student of 
love. Drink then " — he gave her one of the two 
shining goblets — " drink to life, to love, and the 
happy chance 1 " 

With an engaging reluctance Angioletto put 
out a timid hand, took the goblet, held it to 
his lips. Over its brim his eyes, large, shining, 
full of a meaning that intrigued while it baffled, 
surveyed Alessandro. 

" To the happy chance — and the courage to 
seize it." 

He began slowly to drain the glass. Aless- 
andro tossed off his own glass. " Courage," 
he answered with exuberance, " courage, and 
the hour, nay, the minute." 

He set the glass down on the table. Back 
from the wardrobe came Adelesa. She had what 
she wanted. As she passed Alessandro she 
pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. . In her 
other hand she held a second handkerchief. 
Reaching Angioletto, openly, without disguise, 
she offered a handkerchief. Angioletto with a 
little smile of thanks took it in his left hand. 
So, with the glass raised to his lips in one hand, 
the handkerchief in the other, drooping by his 
side, fingers adjusting themselves ever so deli- 
cately about the slender handle of the toylike 
blade the lace covered, he emptied his glass. 

" The hour, the minute, the very second ! " 

The man sitting at the table burst out : — 

" On my soul, all you say sparkles like your 
eyes. Did I boast myself professor in this Art 
of Love ? As I look on you something bids me 
expect a lesson from my pupil." 

" Oh, expect a lesson I " A rippling musical 
little laugh was thrown. 

Alessandro sprang up. " A challenge — good ! 
Well, teach me I " 

To Adelesa at his action there came now a 
terrible feeling, the sense of the approach of a 
moment full of fate, the moving forward of 
something imponderable yet irresistible, the 
looming of a hand, gigantic, shadowy, out- 
stretched, with fingers spread, now closing 

She gave a cry in a voice trembling with 
terror. Alessandro was so smiling, so confident, 
that his look and action seemed invested with 
a grotesqueness that reached the diabolic. A 
sudden pity, even for this man she so loathed, 
wakened in her. She made one last desperate 
effort to save him. She panted, " Oh God — 
Oh God ! My lord, let me beg you once again, 
let u> alone, leave this house. You speak 
of love and life, but think, think of hate, of 
death " 

Frowning, annoyed, his impatience at her 
remonstrance too much for his usual assumption 
of unruffled politeness, he struck in. " Death ! " 
The word was offensive to him. " Enough, 
signora. Come," back to his sinister urbanity 
again, " we shall all have the dismals. We are 
three, which is a pestilentially unlucky number 
in matters of love. Pray tell me, what is through 
that door ? " 

Adelesa followed with her eyes his action as 
he pointed. 

"My dressing-room." 

" It has a window ? " 

" Yes." 

" Then do me a favour. Go into your dress- 
ing-room, close the door, sit by the window, and 
tell me, by and by, how many stars you can 
count." He stared at her, smiled as he saw her 
take his meaning. " Count carefully. Miss not 
a single tiny star, even if it should take you — 
three hours." Again his eyes rested on her 
face, insolently impatient of her presence. " Go, 

She looked from him to Angioletto. The boy 
still stood, slender, arch, coy, smiling lips 
parted ; he gave her one glance ; in his eyes 
was a gleam too dreadful .for her to meet. 

She spoke but once more. 



" I warned you." She lifted her hands as if 
abandoning all responsibility, as indeed she was. 
lifted the latch, entered her dressing closet, and 
s^ut the door. 

Alessandro turned to Angioletto. Those dark 
eyes were turned full upon him, but the face, 
still beautiful, still entrancing in its smooth 
beauty, had changed its aspect. There was no 
smile. The nostrils were swelling, the lips set, 
the brows level and lowered, so that the eyes 
looked with a dark brightness out of shadows. 
Ales3andro felt a momentary chill, which he 
threw off. 

" How stern we are looking. She has dulled 
Madialina's spirits with her chatter of life and 
death. M H3 took a step forward. His sure- 
ness, his sense of complete hold on the immediate 
future roused in Angioletto a touch of that same 
pity that had moved Adelesa to a last warning. 
Yielding to an impulse akin to hers, with out- 
stretched hand he stayed Alessandro. " A 
minute, Excellency ; she asked you to go — I ask 
you to g:>." 

Again Alessandro felt a chill, and again threw 
it off in speech. 

" But what of courage and the happy chance ? 
Shall we not take it ? " 

No more of pity. Angioletto 's fingers felt more 
certainly the handle of the knife lying in the 
handkerchief's folds. Still unsmiling, he, like 
Aielesa, relinquished all thought of further 
intervention between this man and his fate. 
41 If your lordship insists." 

He took up his part again. He dropped his 
eyes, turned away slightly, lifted the shoulder 
nearest Alessandro, as if interposing a reluctant 
defence, that pretty, proper, last piece of feminine 
" Does your heart beat ? " asked Alessandro. 
Angioletto lifted his eyes to the man's face, 
eyes full of a meaning the Duke's son could not 

" like mad," he answered, calmly, " but my 
hand is steady." 

" And mine," said Alessandro, exulting. 
" Mine has not stirred like this for years. Come 
close, MaddaUna, and put your hand on my 
He stool a pace nearer, opened his arms. 
Angioletto, one reluctant shoulder still lifted 
in guard, shifted behind his back the knife in 
its nest of lace from his left hand to his right. 
Alessandro, all smiles, brought his arms together 
round his prize, felt an arm, slipping round him 
in. response, tighten round his shoulders, pull 
him forward. 

A little pressure at the same moment settled 
lightly on his doublet — on the left breast, over 
his heart. . . . 

In the darkness of her dressing closet Adelesa 
stood, rigid, eyes staring at the starry sky that 
showed through the curtains of the window. Her 
shoulders against the door, her hand on the 
latch, all her conscious energy concentrated into 
her powers of hearing, she waited. 

She heard, not the words, but the muffled 
sound of the short colloquy between the two in 
the bedroom, then came a pause, and then a 

sound, as of a sigh, long-drawn, rising a little, 
then fading, fading into nothingness. Silence 
again ; then a faint thud as of something heavy 
falling — no, not falling, sliding — down on to the 

A voice came to her through the stifling agony 
of the moment, a voice she hardly recognized as 
Angioletto 's, and a tapping on the door. 

" Adelesa, Adelesa ! " cried the voice. " Come 
here ! " 

Faint and trembling, sick at the thought ol 
what she must see, she could do no less than obey 
the strange new ring of command she caught in 
his words. She threw the door open and re- 
entered her bedroom. 

There on the floor it lay. There was nothing 
that suggested violence in the room. No dis- 
placing of furniture ; the couch, the table, were 
as she had left them. The wine in its flagon, the 
glasses, stood sparkling near the lamp. 

Quite easily he was disposed, on his back ; on 
his left breast was a handkerchief, not lying flat, 
but arranged as if it hung on something project- 
ing upwards. There was a patch of red, nothing 
terrifying, just a spurt of bright, clean colour, 0:1 
the handkerchief, and the satin doublet showed 
just there a suggestion of stain, wetness. 

But Angioletto's face, his action as he pointed 
to the thing on the floor, the absolute rest of its 
pose — in these a horror spoke that set her shud- 

" Dead ! " She spoke with a frightful 
hoarseness. " Oh, I shall go mad — I shall go 
mad ! " 

" Silence ! " Angioletto commanded her, as 
he had commanded her into the room, with a 
tone of authority that daunted her. " Help 
me — this dress." He was trying to unfasten 
the bodice her fingers had laced for him with 
such crazy dexterity not half an hour earlier. 

She could do nothing. 

" The horror I Oh, Domenico — husband I " 
She began to weep pitifully. Angioletto grasped 
her by the wrist. " Silence, woman I " She 
looked at him in amazement. He was hurting 
her with the roughness of his grip, his very voice 
seemed to threaten and hurt her, his gaze was 
terrorizing, tyrannical, threatening. 

" You hurt me." He let go her wrist. She 
looked at it. He had actually grazed the white 
skin, and her eyes filled with tears at the pain, 
at this new cruelty. She felt like a little child, 
who, hurt, seeks relief in tears, and needs com- 
forting arms about her. Yet by a sure instinct 
she sought no comfort from Angioletto. " What 
is it ? " she faltered. " You are not a boy any 
longer ; you are a man." 

His sternness never relaxed. " I know not 
what I am — I was man enough for that." He 
swept a glance of contempt at the motionless 
thing on the floor. Still busied with the laces of 
his woman's gown — " My sword," he demanded, 
but merely to stand, quietly sobbing, was all her 
strength would allow her. He managed to throw 
off the gown, and sped with it to the wardrobe, 
opened the door, threw it in, pulled out his 
doublet, lu> sword, and belt. 

On his ears and hers, noticed but not nolcc\ 











there had fallen during the last few seconds a 
confused sound of hasty movement, footsteps, 
voices, a hubbub, in the house, in the street, the 
garden. And now along the corridor sounded a 
rapid footstep, a knocking came on the door, in- 
sistent, warning, and a voice called, raised and 
imperative : — 

" My lord, my lord ! Your Grace ! " Again 
the knocking, impatient and alarmed. " Yow 
Grace ! — Excellency, I must enter." The door 
opened, and the head of Ugolino was thrust 
in, explanatory and apologetic. " My lord, her 
husband has returned— we have him, your 
Grace." He was in the room now, glanced 
towards the alcove, swung his gaze about the 
room, saw what lay on the floor. 

He leapt across the room, stooped, looked at 
the face, and stood aghast. " What's this — 
dead ! " He pulled the handkerchief away, and 
in a flash* knew the meaning of that stillness. 
" Dead I " He stared at Adelesa. " Who — 
how — you ? .You she-tiger ! " His hand went 
to his sword-hilt* . Speechless, she shrank back 
against the wall, and through a mist saw the light 
figure of Angioletto, long rapier extended, dagget 
poised delicately in left hand, slip towards 
Ugolino from the wardrobe. 

The other heard him, turned round, flashed 
on to his guard.' Angioletto was smiling. 

" Fool 1 Put that away." Angioletto, out 
of range, keffc'lu^ point up. He pointed to the 
floor. " The Diike's son — you had him in charge." 
He waited till the flush of fear on Ugolino's face 
told that he had grasped what that meant. 
"You'll burn for this." Ugolino lowered his 
point, swept a bewildered hand across his sweat- 
ing forehead. Angioletto, still wary, rapier ex- 
tended, drove the word of wisdom into the brute's 
swirling brain. " Take your one chance. Send 
your men away. Take horse. Fly the city." 

Ugolino, breathless and dizzy, stared at him 
with mouth feebly opening and shutting. Angio- 
letto stepped to him and spun him heavily round 
by the shoulders, pointing to the door. 

" Speed, man, speed," he insisted, and gave 
him a push. " Death's on your heels 1 " 

Ugolino needed but the mental spur. He 
looked again at the body, let his glance, still be- 
wildered, run over the room, Adelesa, Angioletto, 
then his rapier slapped back into its case and, 
with both hands clutching at his temples, he ran 
from the room. 

Downstairs came a sudden gust of voices, 
parleyings, a rush of heavy feet. The door of 
the house slammed, a cry or two came in through 
the window, the noise of men running down the 
street, a horse's hoofs at the gallop. 

Angioletto was at the window, peering out. 
He had buttoned his doublet, rapier and dagger 
hung in his belt, his hat was in his hands. He 
put it on his head, slipped a knee over the sill, 
and looked once more to where Adelesa stood, 
dizzy, leaning against the wall moie dead than 

Something that was not Jaughter made him 
Uugh as he leant through the window. " Well," 
he said, curtly, " here's away." That was his 
farewell. - 

With sudden energy she sprang to him, caught 
him by the shoulder. " Wait ; tell me what to* 
do. Angioletto, help me. You saved me once, 
save me again. What can I say ? " She made 
a despairing gesture towards the body on the 
floor, and, abandoning herself to utter despair, 
let her tears flow with no attempt to stay 

He was half out of the window, glad enough 
to be gone, but even now her distress and her 
beauty called him to her aid. A pride, too, in 
himself, in what he had done, in her confession 
of her helplessness, urged him not to abandon 
her. He slipped back into the room, and, as «-he 
tottered towards him, caught her and upbore 

In that second, in the contact between their 
bodies, as he gathered her to him, there m came 
into his brain, full of a tremendous exaltation 
at what he had done, one last urging of his 
desire. For a second he hesitated, then a wave 
of new-born egotism, a conviction of mastery, 
swept him forward. 

" Adelesa," he said, in a low voice, " if I save 
you now, what will you do for me?" 

Barely understanding that he was questioning 
her, she asked him faintly, " What do you want ? " 

His eyes lingered over her, as he supported 
her, almost on his breast, her fa^ce a little beneath 
his, her eyes looking up into his, her lips almost 
touching his. 

" One kiss." 

She drew a long breath, was still as a dead 
woman for a little space, then with one -hand 
she disengaged his supporting arms, and placing 
the other on his breast, she pushed him away 
from her. 

" No." 

She knew her helplessness without him, but 
in that refusal to pay the price he asked there 
was expressed and for ever confirmed the con- 
trition for her folly that had been born in her 
at the instant of her husband's rebuke. She 
would not buy Angioletto's help, no, not even 
if he now abandoned her. She would confront 
Domenico alone, if needs must, and bear what 
must follow. Angioletto was peering at her 
earnestly. She faced him uncompromisingly. 
He too stood motionless for a little, then he 
stooped, took both her hands, and raising them 
to his lips as he bent his head, kissed them 

"Well done, lady," he said, with a little 
laugh — and turned his back for ever on his 
hopes — whatever his hopes had been. 

Alonsf the corridor came tVe sound of feet in 
a great hurry. With hanging head she clasped 
her hands on her breast — her knees were knocking, 
she began to droop to the ground— and about 
her she felt again the clasp of Angioletto's arm, 
found his lips at her ear. 

" Courage — now, come — let hie think — I'll 
tell all, the fault is mine. No, wait— ha, I have a 
lie that will serve. Now, courage, courage." He 
held her tightly to him, and, rapier in hand, 
turned to confront tae man who burst into the 


Domenico stopped as his eyes took in the two, 





slose clasped. Angioletto, point extended, chal- 
lenged him, " You, sir, who are you ? " 

Domenico, hat I ess and breathless, ran across , 
checked at the point, drew his own blade. 

" Adelesa — wife, what is it ? Give her to me I JJ 
Angioletto released her, she came unsteadily 
towards him, her arms outs tret eked, but as he 
clasped her to him, his glance fell on the body 

on the floor, " Gods t what's this- ? " He 

leant over and stared at the ri^id face, " Ales- 
sandro ! — Adelesa— what's happened ? You, 
sir ** — he whipped round on to Angiolettc 
" what are you, friend or enemy ? " 

Quite calmly, his point lowered, and with a 
splendid dignity, Angioletto gave him the answer, 

" I am a stranger. I was passing this house. 
I heard a woman crying. I found the house 
guarded. I made shift to clamber in by the 
window, I found this lady resisting a man. I 
stabbed him " 

Dome nice sat down on the couch, his head in 
his hands. Adelesa, her terror at disco very 
still keeping every limb a-shake, knelt by him, 
caressing, ex plaining, desperately. 

" The Duke '= soia, Alessandro. Oh, Domenico, 

^iMP?tfefh^FB*iW rig,xtcaed ' he toW 





me he knew you were away, and that he meant 
to take advantage of your absence. I cried 

out — ** 

X>oroenico lifted his head and looked at her, 
looked at Angioletto, at the body on the floor. 
There was one terrible second of suspense, then 
standing up he drew his wife to him and kissed 
her with passionate fondness- His voice, its he 
turned to Angioletto, was trembling. 

" Sir. take my thaalgi t OD^td^d tunes. 
And thanks to God "—he went on in earnest 
gratitude, " to God. who has spared me the full 
luences of my unjust suspicion- Adelesa JJ 

—he turned to her with a humbleness that fell 
■ in her like a scourge on her back — " I ask your 
pardon. I doubted you. I went on no journey. 
All I told you of that was a blind. I had seen 
that vile beast Ugoliuo prowling about this 
house, and I doubted you. Good God, I 
doubted you, my dearest one. I came back, 
thinking to trap you. Forgive me. I am 
asham^j jfeyp^un ^ wM J**^ you.'^ 

UWfefflWMUSffied down b« cheek* 

She threw her arms about his neck, but as she 
kissed him. th* k passion that seemed t<- lap her 



as in flame was of gratitude for the mercy that 
she felt had been vouchsafed her. 

" As God sees me," she said, brokenly, " you 
never shall have cause." 

Domenico gathered his wife to bis breast with 
an emotion as deep as hers. Their lips met. 
her heart beat on his, her hands, trembling, 
sought to draw his more closely about 

" Sir, lady," broke in a voice, " I bid you 
good night." 

They loosed each other. Angioletto, hat in 
hand, handsome, unruffled, a proper gallant, 
made them a bow most courteously, as he 
stepped backwards towards the door. 

Domenico stayed him. " Ah, but wait. Let 
me know your name, young gentleman. Think 
how much I am your debtor." 

A ghost of a smile flickered on Angioletto f s 

" Since you tell me this was the Duke's son 
I had rather say nothing, but take my leave." 

Domenico flashed a proud glance at him, at 
the body, at Adelesa. " Sir," he replied, "this 
was the Duke's son, but I am what I am, and 

the Duke shall abide his son's mischance. At 
least, at some later time, visit me." 

Adelesa suddenly intervened. 

" Husband," she said, pleadingly, " let me 
be strange — Sir," to Angioletto, who heard her 
gravely, yet still with that faint smile on his 
lips, " Sir, my heart is overflowing with gratitude 
to you, and to Heaven, but I will ask you never 
again to set foot in this house." 

Domenico stared, but held his peace. An- 
gioletto regarded both him and Adelesa for a 
second. Then, " You have my promise," he said. 

She clasped her hands together in an ecstasy 
of thanks. 

" Thank God 1 " 

Angioletto bowed, again went toward the 
door, stopped as he reached it, and again 
looked round the apartment. Adelesa was 
in her husband's arms. Alcssandro on his 
back near the couch seemed to be lying there, 
if not with an air of boredom, at least with 
an almost ostentatious disregard of all about 

Angioletto shrugged his shoulders. 

" Amen," he said 




1 wo poets : in the New World lived the one ; 
The Old World claim* the other as her son. 

1. The weapon, though it now is oat of date, 
Reminds us that some folk exaggerate. 

2. An Emperor whose life in wars was spent ; 
Within the cotton is the rose*s scent. 

3. Three words (two letters each) select, and mix : 
And then your gaze upon the Second fix. 

4. The means to make him win, if used aright. 
Might just as well have made the dragon white. 

o. On such a day Youth's wondrous victory 
Evoked triumphant chant of ecstasy. 

6. You only need to write the central third. 
Else you will find the gist of all the word. 

7. Take something round, curtail, then write instead 
Another name of his ; lastly, behead. 

8. Here lived the cleric, and the Star hard bj 
And some few miles away the Butterfly. 

9. The bird wants fish. Should letter leave the end 
And lead, it may become your fairest friend. 

10. Name T Change direction in what Nansen did. 
Title ! A letter in a town is hid. 


Answers to Acrostic No. 66 should be addressed to th? 
Acrostic Editor, The Strand .Magazine, Southampton 
Street, Strand, London, W.C.2, and must arrive m4 later 
than by the first post on July OM. 

Tu*o answers may be sent to every light. 
It is essential that solvers, with their answers to this 
acrostic, should send also their real names and addresses. 


Notes.— Light 3. 
with a letter inserted. 

Answer to No. 64. 
N in 

I c 

N u t me 

E ight 


pisty 1 

u n e a t o 

Meg. 5. 



6. Epistle. 

Epistyle and capitals, in archive 

ture. 7. Elapse, please. 8. Nun, eat on. 

Answer to No. 66. 

1. S 

2. T 
X O 
4. N 
5 E 

Note.— Light 5. Mta 
South latitude. 

c e p 1 1 
a r t a 

u tg 

re bu 



Erebus and Terror, about BOdeg. 

For the second light of No. 62 " Prestissimo," sent by 
a few solvers, is accepted as correct. 

Correspondents who write to the Acrostic Editor and 
desire answers to their queries should enclose a stamped 
addressed "envelope with their letters, and the A.E. will 
endeavour to r«:i>lir* 





Humour gives a spice to advertising, as it does to everything. What is more 
telling than a picture which makes people laugh ? Such pictures as are repro- 
duced in this article speak for themselves. But the humour and ingenuity of 
written advertisements are also very often of excellent quality, and this article 

recalls a few examples of the best. 

in blue letters 
their denuded 
scalps : * " Cafe 
Concert." A boot- 
dealer in Quebec 
presented with each 
pair of his boots a 
pair of over-shoes 
which bore in raised 
and reversed char- 
acters on their soles 
an advertisement of 
his wares, so that 
each customer when 
using them printed 
this notice on the 
snow at every step : 
" Fitall's Rubber 
Goods go to Great 
Lengths." Even 
more ingenious was 
the happy thought 
of an hotel-keeper 
in Samoa, who pub- 
lished the qualities 
of his beer in white 
letters painted on 
the abdomens of 
adipose natives and 
on the soles of 
boys' feet, so that 
when they dived 
for coppers along- 
side the mail, 
steamers. " Pink's 
Beer " was the 

OME years ago ten well-dressed 
men paraded the streets of 
Paris ; at the word of com- 
mand they came to a halt in 
front of the restaurants, removed 
their hats, and, making a pro- 
found obeisance in unison, 
revealed this legend painted 









" Dear Sir, 

When I first began using 
• Tatcho ' my hair was short 
and stubby ! 

last seen of them as they vanished into the 

Even tropical, spice-scented Ceylon proved 
the other day that she does not mean to be 
left behind in advertising ingenuity. A firm 
of whisky-sellers there engaged an aeronaut to 
give a series of balloon-ascents, showering, as 
he ascended, hundreds of sample bottles of 

whisky attached to 
miniature para- 
chutes. Each as- 
cent, moreover, had 
a brilliant finale in 
a display of fire- 

In Great Britain 
one of the most 
daring efforts in 
advertisement was 
made a few years 
ago by the pro- 
prietors of a well- 
known brand of 
pills. When the 
famous old battle- 
ship Foudroyant 
was wrecked off 
Blackpool, her 
owner, Mr. G. . 
Wheatley Cobb, 
and his crew left 
her for the night 
to take a well- 
earned rest on 
shore. On return- 
ing to the stranded 
vessel the next 
morning they were 
greeted by the 
words, " Blank's 
Pills," painted in 
large letters on the 
venerable hull. 
Once the Glasgow 

' It is now long 
and curly I 'ft 


4 6 


by no means hopelessly outclassed by 
his American cousin in ingenious and 
amusing advertisement. Here are a 
few more samples of his skill, 

Not long ago in the window of a 
City shop was to be seen this notice : 
" These gloves are on our hands. We 
would much rather that they were on 
yours." " If you do not see what you 
want in the window/' ran an Islington 
announcement, " come inside and you 
will want what you do see. 1 ' Behind 
the bar of an inn near Hayes, Mid- 
dlesex, the following notice is dis- 
played : M All spirits sold in tins 
establishment contain as much liquor 
as the landlord can get into them" 
A London hosier thus introduces his 
tics : — 

Tlirrp wv friendship's tie* and bunin«M tkvi. 

And family ties by birth. 
But you will find the ties w* advert w 

The smartest ties on earth. 

Happily, it is seldom that tragedy 
enters into the field of advertisement 
as in the following cases, of quite 
recent history. Miss Louise Douglas, 
wishing to advertise her forthcoming 

News wan advertised to the 
world in a form as artistic as 
conspicuous. On the side of 
a hill near Artie nice the 
words ** Glasgow News '* were 
cut in the form of flower 
beds, each letter being forty 
feet long and the total length 
of the line three hundred 
and twenty-three feet. 

Among recent novel ad* 
vertisements on a more 
modest scale may be men- 
tioned that of a taHor of 
Boston* Lincolnshire, who 
placed in his window ten 
large tortoises, each having 
one letter of his name painted 
on its back, a prize being 
offered to anyone who should 
see the tortoises arrange 
themselves in the exact order 
necessary to spell his name. 
The Islington furniture-dealer 
in whose shop window a 
ne w| y - mar ried or > u pi e • > t j * ■ i k 
partook of their wedding 
feast in full view of admir- 
ing and possibly envious 
thousands must also have 
been a man of no little 

The English jidwrtiser is 


Original jisu 



appearance at a 
N e bras ka t heat re , 
took extraordinary 
means of attracting 
Gotice by swallow- 
ing a live chame- 
leoii. She died a 
few hours later, 
after suffering ter- 
rible agonies, and 
an autopsy revealed 
the animaL still liv- 
ing in her body. 
In order to draw 
attention to one of 
his books, which 
had been refused 
by publishers both 
in Europe and 
America, Charles 
Fbllard, an Irish 
author, committed 
suicide at the foot 
of a cross on the 
summit of a New 
Zealand volcano. 
With a similar ob- 
ject, Miss Edith 
Allanby, a Lanca- 
shire school m ist r ess , 
took a fatal draught 
of carbolic acid. 
" Now that I am 
dead/' wrote the 
prior woman, "the 
book may be taken 
seriously " ; while 
Lionel Terry shot 
a Chinaman dead 
in the streets of 
Wellington, New 
Zealand, in order 
to call attention to 
the "Yellow Peril/' 
and to advertise a 
book, "The Shadow 
of the Empire/' 
which he had writ- 
ten on the subject. 

In original and 
sensational adver- 
tising Uncle Sam 
claims to * ' 1 ick crea- 
tion"; and whether 
or not his claim is 
justifiable, he Cer- 
tainly has little to 
learn of the art* 

Sot many years 
since, thousands of 
people in the States 
were driven to the 
verge of lunacy by 
a cryptic advertise- 
nifrnt which met 
and baffled them 
wherever they 
*cnt. Whatever 

Let go 
the painter 

It costs pounds 
logei the painters 
m— very likely it 
would cost more 
than usual this 
yeai Save all that 
big expense, all 
that bother and 
mess by using 
'■ Z-OG / 

The Economy 
of "Zog/* 

A tin 01 two of " ZOG " 
will mike mil the paint 
took like at* at & very 
smelt fraction &f the 
nul of having ihr houst 
rtipiiitittd Dodge the 
pmtnrtn thu year— and 
if there* din on trie 
pflim " Zo% n off" 
Aflgttu&ii bo* to do it 

newspaper or maga- 
zine they opened, 
there was the 
puzzle staring them 
tantalizingly in the 
face ; it defied them 
from almost every 
hoarding in towns 
and every barn- 
door and fence in 
the country ; forest 
trees were hewn 
down by the score 
on the Pennsyl- 
vania Railroad to 
give an uninter- 
rupted view of a 
mountain side from 
which it stared in 
letters four hundred 
feet high, and all the 
rocks near Niagara 
Falls flaunted the 
same mystic legend 
— ' H S,T[ 1S60 X. j ' 

What could be 
the meaning of 
these ubiquitous 
and provoking 
symbols, everybody 
asked everybody 
else ; hundreds of 
thousands of dollars 
were wagered on 
them ; 1 i 1 e - 1 o n g 
friends came to 
words and 1 slows 
about them ; dis- 
cord was sown in 
peaceful families ; 
America, in short* 
was driven almost 
crazy by the three 
let tens and four 
figures, Then, just 
as human nature 
had reached its 
limit of endurance, 
the ingenious ad- 
vertiser of a certain 
commodity called 
"Plantation Bit- 
ters " supplied the 
clue. "S.T. i860 
X M stood for noth- 
ing more startling 
than a history in 
epitome of his 
business success — 
" Started Trade in 
i860 with Ten dol- 

Not long ago a 
Brooklyn trades- 
man conceived a 
i g h I y original 
ICttfeAW which de* 
served better. success 





than attended it. He had his advertisement 
affixed in raised letters to the tyres of an 
automobile, so that when the letters were, by 
an ingenious arrange rnent* coated over with 
white paint, the machine left a wake of adver- 
tisements on the asphalt roads over which 


Why does that man sleep so well ? 

Hecause r lo sleep well, one must have good 

To have good digestion one must take Charbon 
de iielloc. He has done so. Why not do as 
he does ? 




the Distillers Company, ]jhk 



it was driven. Unfortunately, the 
authorities, not disposed tc> encourage 
such enterprise, threatened legal re- 
prisals, and thus nipped the scheme in 
the bud, 

No one knows the value of adver- 
tisements better than the American 
farmers who, a few years ago, made- 
each pumpkin or "squash " they grew 
proclaim its own virtues to the world. 
Letters were cut on the pumpkins 
while young so that in their maturity 
they were sent forth bearing such 
legends as these in large letters : 
1 How many pies do you think I 
make ? Two hundred, if I weigh an 
ounce " ; " This is the kind we grow 
up the Hudson River"; and "Fell 
downstairs when I was young *' — each 
with the farmer 's name and address 

A familiar sight in the streets of 
New York a short time ago was a 
small procession made up thus. In 
front stalked a gigantic wooden bottle 
labelled " Stagg's Columbia Relish, iJ 
over which floated a banner with the 
words, " I lead the way;" Close be- 
hind followed an enormous cruet -stand 
on wheels, with four cruets, of which 
one. was .empty ; while far in the rear 
PptGWftfll tiG&nsrnall boys in dinunuti^ e 
.'[[vl^Y^a^p^r^j'i^ther people's sauce 
— we can't catch" up." 



A Chicago firm was 
responsible for a pro- 
cession of porkers, each 
welMed animal pro- 
claiming on its plump 
sides that " Blank and 
Blank's sausages are 
the best ! We can 
guarantee them"; 
while a New York 
theatrical manager 
struck out a novel 
line by distributing 
broadcast cheques for 
four cents, accom- 
panied by this mes- 
sage : " Sir, — Assum- 
ing that your income 
is fifteen thousand 
dollars a year, and 
that you . ' appreci ate 
the fact that - Time 
is money, * we enclose 
our cheque far. four 
cents in payment for 
two minutes of your 
time at that iate, to 
be employed in care- 
fully reading a brief 
and honest statement 

of a few of the many original, novel, applause- 
winning features to be found in the new three- 
act musical farce to be produced for the first 
time in New York on Monday evening." 

Even death is not sacred to the Yankee adver- 
tiser, as witness the following inscription on 
the tombstone of a member of a Tennessee 
finti : " Sacred ,to the memory of John Wills, 
for twenty years senior partner of the firm of 
Wilis and Butt, now J. J, Butt and Co. " ; and 
this : " Mr. Bronson has the honour and regret 
to inform his friends and patrons that he has 
just published a new waltz, * The Breeze of On- 
tario/ and lost his daughter, May Ann Deborah, 

aged fifteen years. The 
waltz is on sale at the 
music -sellers, and the 
funeral will take place 
to-morrow at eleven 

No less unconven- 
tional was the resource- 
fulness of the New 
York hatter -who, by 
offering to pay one 
hundred and twenty- 
five dollars to the 
widow of a man con- 
demned to death, se- 
cured a startling 
advertisement^ for Ms 
wares from the foot of 
the gallows. When the 
doomed man was 
standing on -the trap 
he begged permission 
to speak a few fare- 
well words. Permission 
was 'granted, and in a 
loud, firm voice he pro- 
ceeded : " All I have 
to say is that the 
best two-dollar hat in 
America can be ob- 
tained of Mr. Blank, hatter, No. 3, Line Street." 
A moment later he was in eternity ! 

Even into the commonplace newspaper or 
window advertisement the American infuses a 
vigour and originality which is rarely seen on 
the western side of the Atlantic, Here are a 
few samples from the window of a New York 
hosier, each a gem — in its way : M These shirts 
ought to be next your heart," " Our ties speak 
for themselves ; you can hear them two blocks 
away/' " The silkworms would die of grief if 
they knew that we were giving their produce 
away for next to nothing/' " Our kids arc 
always good ; one dollar and a half for twins/' 

(olmaris Blue 

■-.•■■* . : 


Ensures a Brilliant BflKaWom 

gauedby^xUUg-lL . -- - UNIVERSrTY OF MICHIGAN 

The Stake in ^w aiting^ 



Illustrated by Graham Simmons. 


ARRY BOWEN was a young 
man with a clean-cut counte-. 
nance and quite a nice taste in 
suitings. Dignity was very dear 
to him, and his trouble at the 
moment was that his dear 
dignity was being unpardonably 
offended. He had shot sideways 
and cannoned into a wall. An enormous hand, 
lobster-red, had reached over his shoulder and, 
gathering the lapels of his jacket into a bunch, 
had tugged him back. Then an arm had swung 
round the small of his back and, lifting him up, 
had projected him forward in the very direc- 
tion in which he had na desire to go. One 
moment he noticed the pavement. The next 
he had landed upon it in a heap, and for a moment 
he lay where he fell, realizing the truth. He, 
Garry Bowen, had been chucked out of a music- 

At last he rose. His first duty was clear. It 
was to maintain his calm, and to recover, if he 
could, his dignity. He must replace his eye- 
glass, adjust the hang of his trousers, and re- 
claim his hat. This he did as best he could in 
the midst of the turmoil. Then he cast his eye 
thoughtfully at the young men who were landing 
on the pavement beside him one by one. They 
were all shouting. One clutched hold of him and 
called him " Old Man/' 

Garry turned to him courteously, adopted an 
easy pose, not without grace, and tapped him 
upon the waistcoat. 

" Pardon me, sir," said he, " but could you 
possibly tell me why I have been chucked out of 
that music-hall ? " 

The other gazed at him with swimming eyes 
for a few brief moments, and then spoke. 

" Why," said he, " don't you — you don't belong 
to ush ? " 

Garry shook his head. 

" Curiously enough," said he, " I have nothing 
whatever to do with you. That's what made 
me wonder." 

The other looked him over considerately, and 
at last he gave a foolish, cackling laugh. 

" I know why it ish," he announced. 4< They've 
put a chalk mark on your back. We've all got 
chalk marks on our backs. They did it inside 
when they were rounding ush up. It's so that 
we sha'n't get in again ; and they've done it to 

Afterwards, things moved rapidly ; and when 
Garry came to look back, the events that fol- 
lowed seemed to pass before his mind's eye like 

scenes of a five-part drama turned upon the reel 
with furious speed. 

He had taken hold of the commissionaire who 
had done the deed by one of his brass buttons, 
and had tried to explain. In return he had been 
unceremoniously hustled into the gutter and 
shown the way off. Here his equable temper 
had at last got the better of him and he had 
turned with a graceful swing and dealt his perse- 
cutor a nimble blow in the eye. Next he remem- 
bered the appearance of a policeman, and before 
he was fully aware of what had happened, Garry, 
with mud-splashed summer spats and dented 
hat, his eyeglass dangling at his waist, was being 
frog-marched down Piccadilly, solemnly protest- 
ing that he had had nothing whatever to do with 
the fracas, that it was all a futile and fat-headed 
mistake, and occasionally mentioning, in an 
apologetic undertone, the interesting fact that 
he had left a pair of dog-skin gloves under his 

He was not even drunk. 

His solitary offence lay in the fact that he had 
been to a music-hall. 

Garry's father was not a rowing enthusiast. 
He was a rowing fanatic. One could well imagine 
this from a glance at him. He was a short, 
square old man with the face of a bulldog, and 
he took an altogether excessive pride in a very 
old straw hat which he wore all the year round, 
adorned with the faded hat-band of Leander. 

Before Garry came to him in the garden he 
knew what had happened. 

They had dropped Garry out of the crew. 
Nobody had asked any questions. The vice- 
president of the club had seen Garry on the 
borders of Leicester Square, and had formed the 
opinion on the spot that he was not responsible 
for his actions. This was perfectly true, of 
course. Had he been responsible for his actions 
at that time, they would have been taking him 
in an entirely different direction. 

Garry came across the lawn with studied 
dignity, his dark hair glistening in the sun. 

Nobody except Mary believed that Garry was 
enthusiastic about anything except his personal 
appearance. This was Garry's own fault. He 
had liked to make them think it. The only folk 
he was inclined to respect were those who could 
see through him ; these knew that he was not 
much more than a sensitive schoolboy in dis- 
guise. But they were very few. 

To most, his pose was too convincing. 

His own fa f;Tier, for example, had always been 




He looked up now 
and stated at Garry 
moodily. He was a 
very old man, and 
when at last he spoke 
his voice was broken. 

" You can go/' said 
he. Then paused , and 
seemed to be remem- 
bering the past. " My 
ambition was to have 
a son. You came. 
Then my ambition 
w£s to see you stroke 
a crew to victory at 
Henley. To that end 
I cast every possible 
opportunity in 10 your 
tap. You had four 
years at Cambridge 
and couldn't get your 
Blue. I didn't blame 
you. Only one man 
can stroke the crew, 
and I wouldn't let you 
tow anywhere else. At 
last you came down* 
I've indulged your 
every wish to help 
you keep up rowing. 
As you wouldn't have 
had much chance with 
Lea rider, I let you join 
t he Sn rre y C lu b* It was 
a toss-up between you 
and Mullin for stroke. 
They chose you." 

He stopped. He had 
been speaking in the 
slow, reminiscent way 
of an old salt telling a 
story. At last he looked 
up in real grief, 

" You've taken all I could give you, and in 
return you've brought me disgrace. You were 
w training, and you got drunk at a music-hall. 
They chucked you out into the street , and then 
you fought and were run in. The club have 
dropped you, And/' he said, with a fervent 
raising of his voice, "they're right. I'd have 
dropped you myself — my own son. A man who 
doesn't know when to get tight and when to play 
the game is no use in a crew at all." He paused 
again, as if to give added emphasis to his final 
words. " You can go." 

At first Garry was too amazed to speak. He 
had expected to be condemned without a hearing 
by the club, He had had to fight for his place, 
and had barely held it. Maybe this thing had 
provided good opportunity to give the other man 
his trial. But he was desperately disappointed 
in his father* 

He had never allowed the old man to know it h 
but he had loved him very well. What hurt him 
now was the disco very' that he was to be given no 
chance to speak. The word of a policeman and 
a commissionaire were to be unconditionally 
accepted not merely by a magistrate, but even 

r i know 



by his own father. He did not ask for a hear- 
ing, He made no attempt to explain. He was 
too proud. If the old man were ready to believe 
the worst at a moment's notice, it was no 
use having anything to say. Perhaps one 
day he would And out, and then he would be 

Garry's bearing was exactly true to his absurd 

life fixed his eyeglass and gazed at his father 
with polite interest. Then he turned his head 
and cast a regretful eye at the hang of his 
trousers, examined his right spat ; at last he 
moved, with slow and leisurely grace, across the 
lawn. He did not say good-bye* He was a 
little afraid of the lump in his throat. He acted 
his part very well indeed. Pretending to be 
only very faintly concerned, he went. 

As for the boathouse, he had been there once 
and he was not going there again. He knew the 
verdict. Nobody had said anything. They 
had just left him out. He had not told them that 
his whole soul had been filled with a great resolve 



thought of him as a foolish young man whose 
chief pride was in his hats. 

Before he went away he decided that he wanted 
to see Mary. 

Mary was small and compact and could run 
like a stag, and he believed that it would be very 
enjoyable indeed to go through life arm-in-arm 
with Mary all the way. 

He thought of calling at her house, but fortu- 
nately he met her beside the river. At first 
neither spoke. Mary just looked at him, and 
he lifted his hat and put it back carefully at 
exactly the right setting, and then he leaned 
upon his stick and fixed her with -an, inquisitive 
eye. He wanted to see just how far this play- 
acting business went with Mary. 

11 Have they dropped you ? " 

" Yes," said he, and spoke cheerfully. This 
was because he knew she understood without 
him telling her that he was nearly as heart- 
broken as his father. 

" But it isn't true," said she ; *' is it ? " 

"Everybody takes it for granted it is," 'he 
answered, crisply. " So I suppose it must be." 

Mary turned away. 

" I wanted you to stroke that crew awfully. 
I — I've nearly been praying for you, I think. 
I " 

He was on the point of explaining, when tyary 
looked at him, and he knew there would be no 

She liked him extraordinarily well ; when he 
was a very little older she* would love him. 

" I know it isn't true," she said. 

He took a sudden step forward. " You're a 
brick," said he. " And now I'm going to 
promise you something as solemnly as I can. 
People think I can't do it. I can. I don't care 
a hang whether they believe this about me or 
not. I'm going away now, but I shall come back ; 
and I'm going to stroke a crew at Henley and 
win. It won't be this year — not now. But I 
shall do it. And I'm going to do it for you. Not 
for the old man, or for a club, but for you, because 
you do believe I'm a trier. You're the only one 
that I can't deceive. You know the truth. It's 
not a rash promise or I wouldn't make it. But 
I want you to believe that it's a real promise, 
and that I won't go back on it. I've asked you 
once to marry me. Well, before I ask you again 
I'll keep that promise." 

Mary looked up at him. She could wait. She 
wanted him to be a little older — and she wanted 
him to do one good thing that would help him 
to find himself before he took her into the hollow 
ot his arm. Yes, she could wait. She said nothing. 
She just looked. Then he gripped her hand and, 
forgetting his eyeglass and his summer spats, 
he turned and went awkwardly away. 

Two months later came war, and this was the 
one thing Garry had left uncounted. 

Garey had been living through the years in 
drear depression. He had only seen Mary once 
in forty months. He had heard that his father 
had died. Garry had been almost unceasingly 
m France, and his leave had only brought him 

silly hypocritical periods in which he slept and 
bathed and lived a gay brief life without a 
shadow of enjoyment, because the England that 
brought him nearer to Mary only took her farther 
away from him. The promise was a curse ; but 
he did not want releasing. The proof of his 
worth. would lie in his keeping that promise in 
spite of the uncounted cost. It had been a silly 
promise, made by a boy. A man was going to 
keep it. 

Mary did not write. He could only guess 
why. In his heart he believed she was going to 
wait ; he believed she trusted him. Perhaps she 
knew that to write would only hurt. He cer- 
tainly saw she understood that to have offered him 
release from that devout vow would have only 
seemed to intimate that since it was going to be 
more difficult than he had expected he would not 
wish to keep it*; and that would be a beastly 

The little professor was his, saviour. Carry 
found him sitting in a shell-fioie watching the 
star-shells with the dreamy eyes of a child, and 
when Garry, who was scouting about with a party 
of men for old iron and wire with which to 
strengthen the newly-won green line, tumbled 
upon him unexpectedly, he looked up with dis- 
tinct irritation, and spoke in a shrill and piping 

" Halloa ! " said he. " Hang you, I thought I 
was going to die." 

Garry cocked his eye as if to receive again that 
discarded eyeglass, and peered upon him 'with 
unusual severity. 

" You can't die here," said he. " There's a 
proper place for that. In a few days we shall 
have to be cleaning up all this, ready for some 
other battalion to take over, and you'll be a 
nuisance lying here dead." 

Next moment he was upon his knees tearing 
open the little professor's buttons one by one and 
fumbling for his wound. 

Suddenly the little fellow had disclosed him- 

" Heavens ! " said he. " I know you. I 
thought I did. You're Garry Bowen. I," he 
added, proudly, " am Carrington." 

" It's true," said Garry, staring at him urgently, 
"You're the fellow who took a first in Mods, 
when you were about twelve. Next time I 
noticed you you were coxing the 'Varsity crew: 
They used to call you the little professor." 

And so, whilst Garry bound him up and carried 
him to a dug-out, the plan was made. It came 
to Garry in a flash at the end of a wonderful 
debate between them on 'Varsity boats. 

" Listen, professor," he announced. " First 
Henley after the war I'm going to stroke a crew 
to victory. It happens to be an oath I made. 
And I'm not going to benefit any old club by 
doing it. I'm going to do it all by myself, and 
I'll tell you now how I'm going to do it. I'm 
going to raise a raggy old crew from the B.E.F. 
— eight men from the line. From now till peace 
I'm going to seek out rowing men wherever they 
are in this uuhcfy cGiintry and make them swear 
an oath to row for my crew the first Henley after 
the war. It's just come to me — seeing you and 



I'il get the best eight men in 
And I*JI stroke em," 
The little prof i eemed a trifle vacant. 

Garry explained. 




Then the little man smiled ; and stretched 

out a hand. 

" That's the most appealing idea I've ever 
heard/' said he, " I wonder now— might you 
by any chance perhaps be wanting a cox 

Garry fumbled in his pocket for a notebook 
and a pencil, 

H Where shall I find you ? " said he. " U you 
live through this frightful fracas* where shall I 
find you ? Give me a permanent address. As 
sure as fate you shall be our cox/' 

tJ In reference to this hole in my side," 
whispered the little man. " Do you sup- 
pus e I shall be able to keep the appoint- 
ment ? Hadn't we better have the race down 
under ? " 

Garry tapped the notebook impatiently. 

" Give mc your address, you dear little man/' 
said he. Give me y:mr address. Here's your 



stretcher outside. You're going home. Give 
me your address, confound you." 

He was unshaved arid streaked with mud. 
Also he was evidently in pain, but when they 
h'ad lifted him on to the stretcher, he rose to a 
sitting position and placed his hand upon his 

" I seem to see Phyllis Court," said he. " I 
seem to see myself in a white top-hat. I hope it 
doesn't mean I'm going to die." 

Afterwards Garry became a kind of fanatic 
rather upon his father's lines. He spent most 
of his leisure time in writing to the Field for the 
last-known address of this man and that — all 
England's most prominent oarsmen — and when 
the Editor had answered all his letters, Garry 
wrote round France* to obtain their promises. 
He kept all their addresses in a little book, and 
against their names there stood recorded the 
date on which they had joined his crew. Some 
of them went under. Garry sighed and wrote 
back to the Field for more addresses. 

The little professor recovered slowly. Some- 
times he wrote to Garry and said, " I shall never 
be fit in time. I shall never be fit in time, ' ' and his 
letters were smeared apparently with tear-drops. 

Others wrote to Garry and said, " There will 
never be any more Henley. What's the use ? " 

But Garry was adamant. They spoke of him 
towards the end as the man who went round 
France like the spirit of a raffle, with a pencil and 
a laundry book, tapping gentlemen on the 
shoulder and saying :— 

" Pardon me, sir, may I put you down for my 
cre^ — First Henley after the war ? " And 
each time a man dropped out of it with a bullet 
through his heart, Garry licked his pencil and 
Sighed and substituted another name. 


It was not, in the end, quite such a good list on 
paper as it had once seemed likely to be. But 
they were eight of the best men left alive. And 
they made up a Mother Country crew. There 
was bound to have been a race for a crew like 
that, and when the word was whispered about 
that a man called Bo wen had picked men ready 
to race, the men of high place on the river who 
sat in council were very pleased with him, and 
they noised it abroad amongst the Colonies. 
" Garry will row for England I " said they. 
" Who will row for you ? " And the Colonies 
spoke, saying, " This man and that man and 
these and those — yes, we will sure race you." 
And it was so. 

Garry took his men to Henley at the end of 
May, where they spent a fair part of their 
gratuities in board and rental and ap much more 
as they could each afford in building up their 
might for the fray. 

Garry was not a moneyed man, and he wondered 
whether his cash could be eked out to the end. 
After all one could always borrow. He sent no 
word to Mary and Mary sent no word to him. 
But he knew that she must have read in the 
papers that he was going to keep his promise 

and he thought that she would be thinking 
kindly of him. 

He didn't know. 

He became a grave young man with a visage 
of premature severity, and few smiles. Only 
the little professor understood why ; he alone 
was in the secret. And he was well aware that 
Garry could not help thinking, " Supposing I 
lose ? What shall I do then ? How can I wait 
another year ? " The little professor" himself 
was only wondering what Mary would do if 
Garry lost. Would she be tired of waiting ? 

News came to Garry through the by-ways 
that as yet she was no man's promised. The 
people who told him didn't know the truth, and 
so he used to smile, not realizing that he himself 
didn't know either. But it made the race to 
come as well worth having lived for as anything 
on earth could be. 

At last came the opening day. But before 
the flags were fluttering at the mast-heads, 
Garry's men and the Mother Country crew had 
seen all that they had against them and under- 
stood just how hard it was going to be to win, 
and the first day's morning papers didn't help. 

They wrote that the crew was made up of 
seven men of good repute and a stroke of un- 
known quantity, and Garry could have kicked the 
men who wrote such rude things, but he lay 
doggo and fidgeted instead. 

The little professor read these witty writings 
and then he turned to Garry and said : — 

" Unknown quantity, my grandmother. What 
they don't understand is that it's you that makes 
the equation. You've made the eight men, 
that without you would only have been a kind 
of poker party, into a crew. Nobody can see 
that but me. My mother always used to say 
that I was the clever one, and, by gad, I suppose 
she was right." 

They drew South Africa in the first heat, and 
Garry finished with a long and polished stroke, 
just nicely ahead of them. By means of other 
heats there came into the final against him eight 
men from Australia, and the little professor 
looked them over thoughtfully as they paddled 
in after their race. 

" We row them" said he. " Take a good look 
at 'em. They're good boys. I thought of 
going to Australia ©nee, myself. Supposing I 
had. I might have been coxing them to-day. 
'Stead of which I'm coxing you just for the sake 
of being somebody's best man once in my life 
before I get screwed down. You ought to be 
glad I didn't go." 

Garry never so much as smiled. His thoughts 
were very far away, and they stayed away until 
the hour came for the final, and he found himself 
looking round the crew with a fatherly eye and 
wondering if they could do it. 

" They've beaten New Zealand," he whispered, 
" and they've beaten Canada. What if they 
beat us ? " 

Back on the stake-boat again he turned his 
head and regarded the B.E.F. once more. 
They were smiling good -humoured ly. Half of 
them seemed to F:< t: hiinki ng more of the prettiness 
of Henley &gain after all these years, and of the 







wonder of it, than of the race to come. He 
began to bite his lip. He looked across to 
Australia and took stock of their stamp. Stroke 
had red hair. To the end of his life he never 
forgot it + 

Then the starter was talking. He listened 
dully. His blade turned slowly towards the 
water ready for the dip ; that first stroke was 
pre-eminent in his mind ; every nerve in his body 
was tight and tense with waiting for it + He was 
only faintly conscious that the little professor 

was there ; Ira was jusi looking straight through 
him to a kind of promised land behind, where 




He sat still as a graven image. The little 
professor's voice sounded upon his ears in an 
uncanny way. He was telling them to watch — 
and wait — and watch. 

Next moment they were off. Before he was 
half aware of it all, he had taken his third and 
his fourth and his fifth stroke. They were 
splashing a little, rocking a little, but they had 
fairly started ; every moment they were 
gathering speed ; he made no sound ; there 
was no kind of gasping for breath, but he was 
setting them the hottest start he knew how, 
and they were keeping with him like heroes. 

At last, when he was certain that the first 
slight wildness of the* start had died away, and 
that the crew were following him into their 
proper length, he dared to turn his head in search 
of the red-haired man who was against him, and 
for a moment he could not understand why he 
could only see the canvas of a boat. 

Then something in the little professor's face 
told him why, and without a second's hesitation 
he opened into a spurt. The little man tumbled 
to the need before the effort started and his 
voice went ringing down the water until it 
reached bow, and every man in the boat knew 
what was to come. Next he was counting out 
the time in screeches, and Garry was arching 
his shoulders over the forward swing and drop- 
ping them at the finish in a style that made this 
no ordinary racing spurt ; there was a fire and 
devilry in it all that would not accept the clear 
fact that Australia were ahead ; Garry's eyes 
were fixed with a stern light on the watch above 
his feet, and he took no note of anything, nor 
even of the other man's red hair until he knew 
that the stroke was over forty a minute and that 
he had not lost his length. Then from between 
the gasps that he could not keep from coming 
now, he shouted out to the little professor : — 
" Are we up ? " 

The little professor paid not the slightest heed. 

His eyes were bent on the length of the crew, 

whilst his small, contorted face was letting loose 

a long and astonishing string of appealing cries. 

Garry turned his head. 

Yes, the red-haired man had come back. 
Garry could see now more than the canvas of 
that boat. The Mother Country had caught 
Australia up. They were going now neck and 
neck in a ding-dong struggle for the final lead. 
It was great, but it was awful. 

Garry mastered his failing energy for one finer, 
bigger spurt yet. It was going to be the dividing 
line between victory and defeat. He had 
caught the man with the red hair, but he had 
not yet got ahead. At any second that terrible 
rival might put in as great a spurt as Garry's 
and draw away out of sight. Garry looked to 
the little professor desperately, and the little 
professor understood. 

" We're going for it again," he bellowed, and 
his voice was agonizing with the strain. " We're 
going to do it or bust. Follow your stroke ! 
He's hitting it up ! Take it now. Take it 
along, then. Take it along, and take it up I " 

In the bow of the boat they could not hear 

The dense crowd had taken away all the power 
he had ever had of making his cracked tones 
. reach to them there. Now and again they saw 
the workings of his face, and knew what he 
wanted, and they did their best to watch the 
dipping of the blades and take the timing from 
the swinging shoulders of the men ahead. But 
the roar from the banks was deafening. They 
were hardly conscious of it, but they knew that 
a great kaleidoscope of colour was stretching 
along the banks to either side, and that the crowd 
were swaying towards them as they passed and 
whacking them on, as it were, with hats and 

Garry never knew. He had lost all thought 
of Mary. He did not imagine her cheering to 
him as he rowed. He imagined nothing but the 
Red Man winning, and his soul was athrob. 
Garry had passed him and he was ahead, but 
this was not enough. He knew with a deadly 
certainty that that red-haired terror had another 
spurt to come, and that somehow he and the 
men / he had picked in France were bound to 
answer it. 

The purple-coloured face of the little professor 
bore out his own anxiety. In the race against 
South Africa he had carried himself with a lofty 
dignity. In this he was like a bobbing maniac. 
And all the while Garry kept watching for that 
other fellow's spurt, and he knew it was bound 
to come. 

He found himself growing weak. His legs 
were working now like senseless things that he 
could not believe were even his, his arms were 
cramped and wet with the perspiration of 
exhaustion. He could only see dimly. 

For any other purpose but that which he had 
as a signal before the windows of his mind, he 
must have cracked and been defeated. 

But he knew that it was Mary or nothing, and 
that he had .to win. So at last the moment 
that he had been so grimly watching for 
came suddenly. In an amazing flash the red- 
haired fellow had quickened to a desperate 
effort. His boat was drawing up towards the 
Mother Country. The spurt was good and fast, 
and it drew on Garry with a dread intention 
that did away with all Garry's doubts. 

Then he cast up his eyes to heaven and put out 
the strength of his body in his final answer. The 
little professor was calling out the time in a 
hopeless sob that no living man could hear, but 
the crew were watching him and they saw his 
. small head bobbing to the dipping of Garry's 
blade. And to the wondrous roar of deafening 
cheers from the river banks, where the loaded 
punts were herded behind great booms, the 
Mother Country crew followed their leader into 
the greatness of the finish. 

Somehow he only remembered afterwards 
stopping because he was made to stop by the 
little professor. But never in his life could he 
remember the proper ending as it must have 

He knew that he looked to the little professor 
wildly when he was made to stop, and said : 
" Why ? Why ? Why 5 " 

And that the Jittle professor answered with a 



tracked voice and a pathetic squeak ; " Oh t 
fathead, because you've won I " ^ 

Mary came out of the crowd, and only when 
he felt a hand on his shoulder that he knew hb 
hers did Garry turn. The hand came down by 
slow degrees from his shoulder and took his* 

" I've done it, you see," said he, and he 
seemed breathless and d on e- 
pro raise 

Oh, I do congratulate you. 
did it for* it was fine I " 

He felt the steady pressure 
of her hand and be held it 

But there was something 
in her manner that troubled 

It was something that made 

I've kept ray 
Whatever you 

his money — on the day you stroked a winning 
crew at Henley — and nothing if you never did.' 
In the silence that followed Garry tried to 
understand and to believe, 

" Do you mean that he never told you ? pi said 
Mary at last. M Do you mean you did promise 
this — for me ? Not for money ? Just for me 

" Of course I do,'* said Garry, savagely. " The 
old man told me nothing. He wouldn't. He 
wasn't that kind, If he made a will like that 

he'd mean me 
not to know till 
after I'd done 
it* There's pro- 
bably a clause 
in the will to 
say I wasn't to 
be told/* 


ber seem so real a friend, as to be nothing 
more. He looked at her, 

" What do you mean ? " said he* ** Whatever 
I did it for ? Didn't you know I J d keep my 
word ? " 

" I did believe it when you said it, and I was 
proud. Only I saw your father two days later, 
and he told me.' 1 

" Told you what ? " snapped Garry. He was 
looking at her fiercely. There was something 
behind it all and he TO going to dig it out. 

" About the will.*' 

" What will ? " 

She was almost impatient. 

" Oh, you know well enough," she answered, 
" Please don't tease/' 

" I don't know anything about any will at all," 
said Garry, passionately. " I don't know what 
you're talking about. All I know is that I'm 
penniless — and my gratuity's all gone, I'm 
going to make you marry me, but I don't know 
what we're going to live on." 

Garry seized her by the arm and drew her 
firmly towards him* 

" Tell me what on earth you're talking about/ 1 
said he, " Tell mc at once/- 1 

" Your father made a new will the day you 
Irft him," said Mary, in a still, small voice- " All 

Mary sighed just once. It was a sigh of utter 
and uncounted joy. " Didn't you wonder why 
I never wrote ? Why I never came to you and 
found you out ? Don't you see, Garry ? I 
thought you knew, and then you came to me and 
said you were going to do it for m$ t when you 
weren't at all really — you were just going to do 
it for money." 

Garry turned and beckoned to the little 

** This little man will tell you," said he* " He 
knows all I know. I told him two years ago. 
Hell tell your 

" Oh, there isn't any need," said Mary, "if 
you say you didn't know, That's enough." 

Suddenly she smiled. 

" It's been a long time waiting." 

Garry put out his hand involuntarily, as if he 
were reaching for the prize, then drew it back. 
A sudden step had sounded behind him. He 
turned. " The little professor stood obediently at 
his elbow. 

Garry made a threatening gesture. 

'* Oh, go away," said he* ** Go away, you silly 
little man." 

The little professor stared. 

" Well. I'm biowed \ " said he. " I thought I 

was g oinUltt<fftftT4N)F MICHIGAN 



came out of 

the new sta- 
tion, at .which 

one alighted 

for the new 

garden suburb, 
and turned into the new road 
leading to the new house of 
which he was the owner. 
There were .other new houses, ""**-• 

but so new that they were not 
yet ready for occupation. Con- 
sequently the foot traffic on the road was never 
great. At the moment it was limited to the 
shiny boots of Mr. Frampton and the shabby 
ones of a tradesman -loo king person who walked, 
or, rather, slouched, a dozen yards in advance. 

It was a fine spring evening, and, after a pretty 
good day in the City, Mr. Frampton was return- 
ing to his bachelor residence in pretty good 
spirits. Only those fairly intimately acquainted 
with Mr. Frampton could understand why so 
urban a gentleman should have decided to settle 
in so suburban a neighbourhood. As a matter 
of fact, Mr. Frampton was not at home every 
evening, but he was invariably there with a 
party of guests over the week-end. His house 
was elegantly appointed within. One of the 
internal features was the window curtains, so 
handsome and heavy and nicely-fitting that no 
ray of light could pass them. Another was a 
roulette table. By such pleasant, easy, and 
recreative home employment did Mr. Frampton 
add to his already " respectable " income. 

In :he City he was a financier, a term which 
covers more sins than charity. His thoughts 
were still in the City as he walked up the un- 
finished road, this fine spring evening, and in all 
probability he would never have noticed the 
individual in front but for an extraordinary 

From the clothing of the said individual fell 
a small object which, striking a stone, gave forth 
a faint musical clink, -spun, rolled a couple of 
feet, and came to rest, a shining disc. Mr. 
Frampton had good sight for his five-and-forty 
years, but he could scarce believe his eyes. It 
was so long since they had seen a piece of 
gold. Involuntarily he quickened his pace, 
and, as he did so, another piece of gold 

ot p < ousc 

fell from the 
then a third. 

same quarter. 
And the loser 

onward, obviously 




Mr. Frampton collected the 
three sovereigns. Though a 
gambler, he was an honest 
man, so far as he knew. Cer- 
tainly he was not to be 
tempted by a few pounds. 
^s*' Yet the beauty, the feel, both 

— •••* so long unfamiliar, caused him 

to pause for just three seconds. 
Then he called : — 
" Hold on, my man 1 You've dropped some- 
thing.' ' 

The man halted and slowly turned. His age 
might have been thirty. Mr. Frampton thought 
he had never seen a stupider look, bovine or 
beery, on a human countenance. But intelli- 
gence dawned at the sight of the gold on the grey 
deerskin. A grimy hand was withdrawn from a 
shabby jacket and opened, disclosing to view 
five sovereigns. 

" Must be a hole in the pocket," was the 

muttered remark. 

" Odd place to carry money, isn't it ? " Mr. 
Frampton observed. 

The man glanced at him. " So it is, but, ye 
see, I was enjoyin' the feel o' them jumpin' out 
and in my hand as I walked along. Much 
obliged to ye, sir, I'm sure," he added, politely 
enough. " Bein' out o' work, I couldn't afford 
to lose one o' the beauties." He took the three 
so providentially restored and, laying them 
beside the others, held out the lot for Frampton 's 
inspection. " Only eight now, which was twelve 
last week," he said, and. then, with an un- 
easy glance about him, dropped the lot 
into his hip-pocket. " Yes, sir, I'm greatly 
obliged to ye, and now I'll be wishin' ye a good 

< " You had better come up to my house and 
drink a glass of ale," said Frampton, whom the 
furtive look had not escaped. " I suppose you 
are looking for work ? " 

" Thank ye, but I won't drink just now, 
though I could do wi' a cigarette, if ye don't 
mind," the man returned, falling into step. 
" Yes, I was thinkin' o' lookin' for work here- 
abouts — so much buildin' goin' on — but I came 

by ^'B^h^pftiEffltfAtt to see anyb ^y 




to-day. Now 1*11 take a walk into the country, 
and maybe come back to-morrow." 

" The war stopped building here for a long 
time ; it was only restarted recently. If you 
like, I'll speak to one or two of the foremen on 
my way to business in the morning/' 

" 'Twould be kind o' ye, sir/' the other replied. 
" But ye don't know anything about me." 
Abruptly, in a nervous whisper : M Ye won't 
tell anybody about them sovereigns ! " 

* Certainly not. Still, mind you, I'm curious/' 
said Mr. Frampton, smiling. " I haven't seen 
so much gold for years/' 

The owner of the sovereigns did not look 
happy, " It's easy enough to get one changed 
here and there, but I'd not be showing anyone 
the crowd, if I could help it," he remarked* 

** Yon showed me the crowd/' 

" I wasn't thinkin'. But ye've promised not 
to tell anybody. Mind ye w I didn't steal them 
sovereigns : I — I only found them." 

" Then they're yours, no doubt!" Mr. Framp- 
ton gave a sympathetic lau^h. " Is there any 
reason why you should not tell mc your name — 
in case I want to mention it to the foremen ? " 

" John Maxwell ; and I*m 
sure I don't know why ye 
should take so much trouble/' 

Mr. Frampton lightly waved 
aside the remark. As it hap- 
pened, he had a use just then 
for a man not too clever and 
not too particular, 

' + Suppose you take that 
walk into the country," lie 
Fiaid* " and call on me on your 
way back, say, about nine 
o'clock; and we'll talk things 
over. Ask for Mr. Framp- 

After some hesitation Max- 
well assented* "But yell for- 
get about the sovereigns ? " 
he added. 

" Don't worry, Maxwell, 
There's my house — the last 
on this road," said Frampton, 
a trifle impatiently. u See you 
about nine." With a nod he 
hurried off. 

" Don't know that the fel- 
low will be much good after 
all/' he reflected, entering his 

Yet a surprise was in store 
for him. It was fated, so it 
seemed, that " the fellow " 
should become, not a creature 
under his thumb, but his equal 
partner in the biggest opera- 
tion of his money -chasing 

Maxwell arrived at the 
hour appointed, sober and 
extremely awkward. He 
looked perfectly miserable in 
the luxurious smoke - room. 
But a single bottle of beer " hold on, 

had an astonishing effect. The host had ready 
a number of cautious inquiries respecting the 
man's past, but before he could begin Maxwell, 
setting down his tumbler, said : — 

" Ye've been that kind to me, Mr. Frampton. 
I'm goin' to risk tellin' ye about the sovereigns. 
But first t 1 wjll ask ye a question. Suppose ye 
bought a house and then found money in it — 
what would ye do ? " 

" Inform the min who sold me the house, oi 
course/' was the prompt reply. 

** But suppose it was thousands and thousands 
o' pounds ? " 

" What difference would that make ? tf 
Frampton coldly demanded. Yet he found his 
visitor's gaze confoundedly disconcerting, 

** And suppose/' went on the other, as though 
he had not heard, i( that the maij before ye had 
been a German— a pre-war German ? " 

Mr. Frampton sat up. then lay back in his 
chair again. M In that case/' he said, " it would 
be my duty to report it to the authorities/ 1 

K Would it now ? " said Maxwell, in dull tones 
of disappointment. 

l+ But I'm wondering whether an ordinary 

Original from 




man like myself would do his duty. What about 
yourself, Maxwell ? " The query was lightly 

" What's the use o' as kin' me, sir ? Ye can't 
even suppose that I had bought the house." 

" Am I to suppose that such a house exists ? " 

Eyeing the sadly-chewed end of his cigar, 
Maxwell said : — 

" Did ye ever hear tell o' a place called Shar- 
mouth ? " 

" Never was there, but I understand it's on 
the East Coast, about three hours from London." 

" That's it I Well, there's a house on the 
cliffs, about two miles out from the town— -and 
that's where I got them sovereigns, Mr. Framp- 
ton." He brought the coins from his hip, and 
held them out in his open hand. His other hand, 
after laying down the cigar, went into a side 
pocket, fumbled, and came forth again. " And 
this is what I found them in." He displayed a 
small bag of fine canvas ; boldly printed upon 
it were the figures, £1,000. , 

" Ye can see for yourself," he proceeded, hand- 
ing the bag to his host, " that it's been slit open 
—the knot o' the string bein' a hard one — in a 
hurry. Must ha' been in a hurry, since twelve 
good quids was left in it. I picked it up in the 
foundations o* the house I've told ye about. . . . 
If it's not to6 forward, I could do wi' another 
bottle o' beer. Talkin's dry work, and I've more 
to tell." 

" Put away your gold," said Frampton, ring- 
ing. " Go ahead ! " 

" If ye don't mind, I'll wait till we're sure o' 
bein' alone again, and I'll ask ye to make certain 
that nobody's listenin' at the keyhole." 

" It becomes quite thrilling," remarked the 
host, looking amused. 

" That's the word for it," was the solemn 
rejoinder. . 

The refreshment having been served, and 
Maxwell having been assured that all was secret, 
he resumed : — 

" Ye see, sir, the old man that bought the 
house, a fortnight ago, had a sudden sanitary 
notion to examine the foundations, but he 
wasn't fit to do it himself, and I was sent to 
make a report." 

" So the house is not now for sale ? " 

" More's the pity ! If it had been standin' 
empty, as it was for near five years " 

" Never mind that for the present. Come to 
the point. Are you hinting at buried treasure, 
Maxwell ? " 

Maxwell took a pull at his tumbler, wiped his 
mouth with the back of his hand, and said : — 

" There's hundreds o' bags like the one in your 
hand — only they're full ! " 

Mr. Frampton 's countenance was slightly 

" And you didn't think," he said, slowly, " of 
bringing one or two away with you ? " 

" Steel door ! " 

" Ah ! ... So the hundreds of full bags are 
to be imagined I " 

" Well, imagined by you, sir ; but my eyes ha' 
seen them, clear enough. There's a little grated 
slit high up in the door — for fresh air, maybe — 

and I shone my lamp inside. And there was 
the bags — hundreds o' them, I swear — all neatly 
sittin' in rows on steel shelves, the £1,000 on each 
sorter smilin' a fat smile ... To think o* them 
belongin' to a German, too ! " 

There was silence till Frampton asked : " You 
are assuming that the old man who has bought 
the house is unaware of the treasure — if treasure 
it really is — under his feet ? " 

" Would he ha* sent me down if he had known 
about it ? " 

" True. Still, he may have found it out by 

" Not likely. I made him satisfied that the 
foundations was O.K. Anyway, I'm goin' tc 
take another look to-morrow, or next day." 

" How will you manage that ? " 

" I left some o' my tools down there, the last 

" Intentionally ? " 

" What's it matter ? I expect they'll let me 
in all right." 

" Who is there beside 3 the old man ? " 

" A girl — his daughter — and a servant. 'Tisn't 
a big house." 

" Do you know anything about the German ? " 

" Only what I picked up in the town. No 
doubt some of it's true. 'Tis said he was a spy, 
and did signalling just before the war, but didn't 
expect this country could come in. When we 
declared, he took fright and bolted — some says 
in a submarine, which somebody thought he saw 
in the bay at the time. Anyway, he must ha' 
gone in a hurry, for he took nothin' with him, 
not even extra clothes. ... Of course, he took 
the sovereigns that was in the one bag — I can 
see him stuffin' all his pockets I " 

" You have a fine imagination, Maxwell ! " 
remarked Mr. Frampton, calmly, though his 
nerves were scarcely so steady as usual. " Now, 
have you any theory as to why this German was 
storing gold ? Had he' the reputation of a 
miser ? " 

" Not a bit of it ! He spent lots. But he was 
workin' for his blessed Fatherland, as was many 
another in the same line— so I've heard. The 
sovereigns was intended for Germany, which 
was likely to need all the gold she could get." 

The other nodded. The man was more in- 
telligent than he had at first reckoned. In the 
new circumstances, however, this could not be 
deemed an objection. 

"Well, Maxwell," he said, pleasantly, "and 
what are you going to do about it ? " 

Maxwell's face clouded. " What do ye mean, 
sir ? I've put myself in your hands," he said, 
rather sullenly. 

" In other words, you are asking my help." 

" Wouldn't it be worth your while ? " 

" Have you been to anyone else ? " 

11 No, sir. Didn't know who to go to. But 
when you spoke to me on the road, I sorter felt 
you was the man for me — no offence intended." 

" You have told me a very interesting talc, 
but you must forgive me if I keep on asking 
myself the question : J Is the gold really there ? ' " 

" Come and .see for yourself," 

" What's that ? " 



"Rig yourself out same as me, and come and 
kip me to look for my tools." 

" Bit of a risk— ch ? " 

" Hardly any ; and ii it was a big risk, surdy 
'twould be worth it* The old man's half blind ; 
the girl — well, she's only a girl, and the servant's 
just a lump of a woman* ♦ . • Yes, that's the 

" I must have my half, Mr* Frampton/' 

,p Well, well, so be it," agreed Frampton, re- 
flecting that, after all, he held the whip. 

Their talk went on for another hour, and then 
Maxwell took his departure. 

Two days later they met on the road, a mile 
out of Shar mouth. 


THE FIGURES, j£l,000. " 


idea ! Come and see for yourself, Mr, Frampton/* 

The financier's restraint gave way 

" Hanged jf I don't I " he exclaimed. M But 
1 must know how I stand," he said p presently, 

in the event of the gold being there." 

" Halves/' said Maxwell. 
The expenses may be great," came the 



" Am I anything like the genuine article ? " 
was the financier's rather anxious inquiry, 

" Oh, ye" 1 1 do, so long as ye keep your mouth 
shut — no offence intended/' 

Jt was a grey afternoon ; the prospect was a 
bleak one. As they approached the house, an 
old square building', somewhat grim and for- 
bidding ^iF^^^l^^P^rf^ffK^PI 111151011 began 




to feel that this was a spot wherein anything 
might happen. 

They passed up the weedy walk of a neglected 
garden, and at the stout door Maxwell whis- 
pered, ere he knocked : " Leave it all to me.*' 

A middle-aged servant opened promptly, and 
made no difficulty about their entering* In fact, 
she said nothing at alL 

Presently they were among the ancient 

M Now," wliis pc red Maxwell, directing his light 
upon a grey door 
lhat looked as if it 
covered the mouth 
of a cave, 4i go and 
see for yourself." 

Mr. Fr amp ton 
stumbled over to 
the door. He was 
iairly tall, and the 
grated slit men- 
tioned by Maxwell 
was just on a level 
with his eyes. He 
had brought an 
electric torch, and 
soon its rays were 
flooding what he 
took to be a cham- 
ber excavated in 
the rock beyond 
the foundations 

Then he drew a 
deep breath. Max- 
well had neither dreams I nor 
invented his tale I In orderly 
rows were the plump canvas 
bags, each bearing its cheerfu 1 
imprint — /! And his 
keen eye seized on some-thing 
that Maxwell's had probably 
missed — a bag with a flaw hi 
it, so that it was in danger of 
bursting, and betrayed the 
nature of its contents — the 
contour of coins and, yesj 
glint of gold itself ! 

There was perspiration on 
Mr. Frampton's brow, fever 
in his gaze. 

He began to count the 
bags . , * One hundred 
and sixty eight — and there 
were shelves not within the range of his vision. 
Great Heaven I the chamber must contain some- 
where about three hundred thousand pounds ! 

" Halves, mind ye ! " said a voice in his ear, 
and he started v olently. 

" Of course. Maxwell, of course/' he replied, 
recovering himself. " There was no need to 
remind me of that." 

" Perhaps not," said Maxwell, " But the 
sight o 1 them bags might make many a man 
forget a little thing like a promise. No offence 
intended, but I'm takin J no chances/' And he 
gave the other a glimpse of a revolver. M Now 
we'd best be goin\ Carry them tools, please, 
and don't speak a word till we 're out o* the house/ ' 

He did not, himself, speak a word until they 
were half a mile down the road. Then he put 
the blunt question : — 

" What arc ye goin' to do ? M 
" There's only one thing I can do— fcuy the 

" Oh I " said Maxwell, blankly. 
" What else have you to suggest ? " 
" Don't know that I've anything, , + Only, 
it looks as if you would have all the power and 
me none. But I suppose I ha* got to trust ye." 

"You have," said 
Mr. Frampton, with 
something of his old 
assurance. M Now 
we're going to part 
for the present." he 
proceeded . ' ' What 
are your plans ? ,J 

" Stay in the 
town yonder and 
keep an eye on 
the house. Ye can 
write to me at the 

"Very well. Ill 
get to work at 
once. If the deal 
takes time, it won't 
be my fault/' 

" How much will 
ye offer the old 
man ? *' 

M I've got to find 
out first what he 
paid. By the way, 
do you want some 
money to go on 
with ? n 

" No. Nothin' 
but my half share, 
thank ye ail the 

then* Don't watch 
the house too 
closely.*' And Mr. 
Frampton walked 
off to catch his 

Within forty- 
eight hours he had 
learned that the 
new owner, Mr + William Palfrey, had paid one 
thousand four hundred pounds for the house 
and furniture. " Might have been worse/' was 
his comment. 

That night's mail carried the following epistle 
to Mr. William Palfrey : — 

Dear Sir p — I trust you will not regard 
this as an unpardonable intrusion. A client 
and friend just invalided home from foreign 
service learns with dismay that the house, 
which he has long desired to possess, has 
been purchased by you. It may be, I will 
readily admit, a sick man's fancy — obsession , 
if you will — hut he has convinced himself 




malady depends on his being able to reside 
in that house. He has persuaded me to 
write to you, which I do with all diffidence, 
offering the sum of two thousand pounds for 
immediate possession of the house and its 
contents. He is, I may say, a wealthy man, 
and has already placed the sum named in 
my charge. 

May I hope for your consideration and an 
early reply ? 

Faithfully yours, 

Maurice Frampton. 

The early reply, at least, was not denied him. 
It ran thus : — 

Mr. William Palfrey is obliged to Mr, 
Maurice Frampton for his letter and the 
offer contained therein, and begs to state, 
that, while sympathizing with Mr. Framp- 
ton's client, he is not disposed to vacate the 
house, which he, too, long desired to possess, 
and which he finds most suitable for the 
retired life he needs. 
" Damn ! " remarked the recipient. " Looks 
as if he had made up his mind." Frampton, 
however, did hot believe in minds made up 
irrevocably. It all depended on the weight of 
the golden lever. 

Accordingly, and forthwith, h^ dispatched a 
quite pathetic letter, increasing his client and 
friend's offer by five hundred pounds. 

Mr. William Palfrey's response was prompt 
and courteous, but just as discouraging as before. 
Without delay, Frampton offered three thou- 
sand pounds. Rejected also ! 

" Curse the old profiteer ! " the financier ob- 
served, a little unreasonably, perhaps, and fell 
to wondering whether honest burglary were not 
the only hope, after all. But he ¥ was no adven- 
turer where his skin was' concerned. 

He wrote that the poor desperate invalid was 
now willing to pay four thousand pounds. 

Two days later came a letter with the Shar- 
raouth postmark, yet not in the now almost 
familiar shaky, spidery handwriting. He read 
it with growing excitement :— 

Dear Sir, — My father is not so well 
to-day and is unable to write. He desires 
me to decline, with his thanks, your last 
kind offer. May I add that I deeply regret 
his attitude in the matter, and would give 
much to see this house disposed of. Its 
purchase on his part was a mistake. The 
sea air does not suit him at all, and it is 
painful to me that he should be risking his 
delicate health and, at the same time, I fear, 
depriving your poor ill client of a possible 
means of recovery. For myself, I will only 
say that I find the place too deadly dull for 

But I write this solely for my father's 
sake, and beg that you will treat it confi- 
dentially. You say that your client is 
wealthy. Well, my father is not, and I feel 
that if the offer were further increased — it 
might have to be largely increased — he 
might be induced to do as you wish. I 
think" that if you came to see him, showed 

him the money, and were prepared to settle 
everything on the spot, he would give in. 

In the circumstances, I believe you will 
pardon this liberty. 

Yours truly, 

Leonora L. Palfrey. 

"Now or never!" muttered Mr. Frampton, 
the gambling spirit thoroughly roused. 

He dispatched a telegram, called on his 
bankers, and caught the train, all within the 
space of one hour. He arrived at Sharmouth 
early in the afternoon, lunched, and took a cab, 
hoping he might not be seen by Mr. John Maxwell 
on the way. The word " halves " may have 
been troubling his mind, but decidedly not his 
conscience. Maxwell would receive a share, of 
course, but it would be no more than seemed good 
in the eyes of the financier. 

However, the house had still to be purchased, 
and by the time Mr. Frampton arrived at the 
door the optimistic effects of the luncheon 
champagne had somewhat evaporated. 

Entering a gloomy, poorly -furnished hall, he 
was conducted along a short passage and shown 
into a study of sorts, indifferently lighted. 

In his dressing-gown, a man with a long -?rey 
beard and untidy grey hair, his eyes protected by 
darkened glasses, sat at a writing-table. By 
the fire sat a girl whom Frampton meiitally 
appraised as " uncommon handsome." 

She rose, returning his bow, and said : — 

" Father, this is Mr. Frampton, who " 

" Yes, yes," the old man interrupted, testily, 
as though roused from meditation. Then, in a 
more genial tone : "Be seated, sir. I received 
your telegram, and regret that I could not reply 
in time to save you a tiresome journey." 

" But not a vain one, I must still hope," Mr. 
Frampton gravely but pleasantly returned, 
taking the chair proffered by Miss Palfrey, at 
some distance from the table. 

Mr. Palfrey shook his grey head. " The house 
is not for sale," he muttered. 

" You will permit me to state my case, as it 
now stands ? " said the visitor. 

" Considering the journey you have taken, I 
cannot forbid you ; but I warn you that you will 
but waste your breath. I would not part with 
the house for twice the sum you have already 

Mr. Frampton sighed. " Still," he said, " I 
must do my duty by my client. Mr. Palfrey, 
my client has worked himself into a deplorable 
condition over the matter. I saw his medical 
adviser last night. There is no doubt whatever 
that his recovery hangs on the satisfying of this 
one overwhelming desire. But even-my client's 
wealth is not unlimited. He cannot go on in- 
creasing his offer indefinitely — and the offer I 
am about to make must be taken as final." The 
speaker paused and cleared his throat. 

" Sir," he resumed, with emotion, " for the 
immediate possession of this house and its con- 
tents, I am empowered to offer you the sum of 
ten thousand I^^^'from 

" Ah ! " murmured Mr, Palfrey while an in- 
articulate exclamation escaped the girl. 




" My client insisted on my bringing that sum 
with me— in Bank of England notes of one hun- 
dred pounds each/' From his breast pockets 
Mr, Frainpton produced two bundles. rR If the 
title-deeds are not at hand, my client will 
accept your simple acknowledgment for the 

u Dear me, dear me I * 9 said the old man, help- 
lessly, his chin on his chest. 

The girl stepped forward* " Father, you will 
accept/* she said, softly, u You cannot refuse/' 
She turned to the visitor. ** How soon should wc 
have to go ? " she asked- 

11 It is so urgent/' lie replied, "that I must 
beg of you to vacate within twenty-four hours 
from now/' 

" It can be done/' she answered. " Father, 
what do you say ? ** 

Mr. Palfrey threw out his bands, " So be it ! " 

he cried, wearily- " For your sake, Leonora, I 
accept the price." 

Five minutes later Mr- on rose to go* 
" I can just catch the express/' he said, after 
gratefully refusing refreshment. " My client 
cannot have the good news a moment too soon. JJ 

Leonora went with him to the door, and 
watched until the cab was out of sight. Then 
she returned to the study. 

1 The car will be here immediately," she re- 
marked as she entered, smiling* 

She did not appear in the least astonished at 
what she saw 

A nice-looking young man engaged in executing 
a cheerful dance upon a wig, beard, and smoked 

At a second glance you would probably have 
identified him with a person of the name of joht* 
Max wel J. 



Correct attitude assumed by a grateful rural policeman towards a lady who has released htm from 

the ferocious attentions ot a mad detf^n C| i l"l cl I iTOITl 

VoL h», >. 




Monumental kindness of a Scotch visitor to London in breaking the fall of a victim to vertigo, 

by Google 

Original from 



Courteous consideration of party of old beaux. Throwing their weitfht into the prevention ol 

serious motor accident! 

by Google 

Original from 



Iron nerve of senior members of The Alpine Club in preserving one of the few surviving 

domestic helps. 

by Google 

Original from 

The Kiddies' Holiday 
at the Seashore. 


— Bui the shark 
was only father 
coming up for 

Uncle John couldn't run or play games, but he made a splendid raft. 

„TJ?tiLrrr)(il frqrn 

The Kiddies Have a 

The greatest roller-act on earth run 
by dog'powfir alone. 

to h 

The only Leopard in captivity 
makes a hairbreadth escape _i 
in full view of the audience. ^\." 

Open -mouthed and wide -eyed 

the audience gazes at the show 

amazed at its wonders. 

Here, ladies and gen- 
tlemen, we have a 
huge exhibit of wild 
animals which have 
won service stripes by 
many perilous deed*. 


by Google 

Original from 






T was unspeaka- 
bly old, shabby, 
s m a I 1 , and 
paintless, and it 
lay in a little 
bend of the 
Thames, almost 
hidden by the 

bent over it as 

willows that 
though they would cover its decrepitude from the 
caustic comments of the gay river craft that 
passed it far out iri the broad stream. But to 
Me# it was a houseboat, and her own. 

She was the owner of a houseboat on the 
Thames, a house of dreams on a dream river. 
It was true that it was little more than a flat 
barge with a hut imposed thereon ; it had a 
door in the middle leading straight into a small 
room which held a rickety table, a cupboard, 
and two chairs, and leading from it a still smaller 
cabin with a bunk in it, that she proudly called 
her bedroom, and on the other side a strange 
lean-to arrangement, in which one could not 
stand upright, with a cooking stove and a shelf* 

And the roof was flat and had a little rail 
round it, and you got up by a rickety ladder 
from the side. Moored behind was an ancient 
and leaky dinghy, wherein Meg rowed from the 
landing-stage by the station, half a mile away, 
into the house of dreams every Saturday after- 
noon, and away again early every Monday 
morning. For Meg was queen of her domain only 
for the week-ends — the rest of the wvek she 
worked in London and dreamed about it. 

All through the week the river called her with 
its silent voice and green and silver beauty, and 
at week-ends she came to it. tingling with 
excitement and awed with the wonder of a dream 
fulfilled. In such a state one does not see the 
shabbiness, the need of paint, nor heed dis- 
comfort. It is the possession of a thing desired 
that makes its beauty. The little legacy that 
had made it hers had been fairy gold. 

Early one glorious July morning, with a misty 
sun giving promise of great heat to follow, Meg 
<*tood on the deck of her beloved and dilapidated 

houseboat, dressed in her swimming 
suit> with hands outstretched, poised 
shivering for her first dive into the 
cool water. She always stood a minute 
or two, shivering with something be- 
tween reluctance and longing, before she 
could make up her mind. Consequently 
she did not see a dark head moving 
in response to slow, leisurely move- 
ments a little way out in the stream 
coming down towards her. The owner of the 
dark head, however, es light sight of her poised 
there, and of the little half -hidden houseboat 
on which she stood, and turned on to his side 
to get a better view. 

" By Jove." he thought " a real river nymph ; 
not one of those imitation Sunday afternoon 
affairs but the real thing/' And he continued 
to float very silently f whe re he could best observe 

So like some river bird suddenly set free she 
swooped swiftly down to her dive, and the 
waters parted with a cool gurgling plop. 

She was a beautiful swimmer, strong, neat, 
and graceful, as befits one who is queen of her 
own domain, and she swam as though in her 
natural element, part of the river life and early 
morning, one with the little moor-hens and the 
bending willows. And the whole scene went to 
the head of the young man floating in mid- 

" Hang it all," he thought, subconsciously, 
fi the beastly stream is carrying me down with 
it, and I'm not as strong as I was, but I must 
stop and watch her/' 

Then, seeing a willow which stretched its 
branches with inviting friendliness out into the 
deep, he turned and swam to the nearest branch 
and held on. It was then he had the impulse 
and inspiration of his life. For very soon Meg, 
in the ecstasy of joy in her early morning swim, 
came out beyond her little bay and lay paddling 
gently on her back, looking up into the misty 
sun, and he, seizing the impulse, called out 
rather breathlessly : — ■ 
" I say ! '* Original from 

It w^j^^i^ea^^i^^^th a hint of 




believed in 

irresponsible friendliness in it. and Meg started, 
righted herself, and looked round to see whence 
it came. 

She saw him there hanging on to the willow 
bough h She swam a little nearer. 

,f What's the matter ? " she called out. She 
had a very musical voice that went with the 
lapping of the waters on the reeds. M Da you 
want any help ? " 

Of one inspiration, to the 
lucky few, is born another. 

" Well. I do rather/' he ad- 
mitted on the spur of the 
moment. " You see, I J m a bit 
crocked up, and I've come 
farther down the stream than I 
intended, and— well, I was won- 
dering whether you would let 
me hang on to your houseboat 
and rest a bit*" 

It was a shot in the dark. 
There might be ten people 
in the houseboat, though 
it hardly looked as if 
there would be room for 
even one more. Yet it 
was unlikely she would 
be here alone. He was 
prepared for two or three 
girl friends, perhaps — 
anyway, it was just 
and, like all Irishmen, 
the luck of the moment. 

She hesitated the fraction of a second. 
Then, ,p Supposing he was a wounded 
soldier, and I didn't let him come." 
she thought. fH I should never forgive 

" Why, of course you may," she said, 
" Let me help you — just put your hand 
my shoulder." 

Now I'm sorry to say that our young man 
had never felt better since that piece of shell had 
knocked him out over in France. But having 
been an invalid for so long, the r&lt came very 
glibly to him* He thought it a very attractive 
shoulder, firm to rest on, but he did not give 
her much work- A few strokes brought them 
to the houseboat, and they clambered up on to 
its low-sided deck* Then he turned his humorous, 
pleading eyes on her, 

" I say, don't let me keep you from your 
bathe," was what he said, but the eyes said 
something quite different, 

I don't know whether it was the eyes or the 
voice that she answered, but I think it was the 
eyes that made her feel suddenly shy. 

41 Oh, I never stay In lonpj trw first time," she 
said, r " but I go in and out the whole morning." 

** Just like a moor-hen," he said, quite gravely. 
" Nothing else could be out on the river quite 
so early in the morning." 

,e You're out." 

w Oh, I'm a crank and a crock/" he told her. 

" Wounded ? " she said, sympathetically. 
She knew from his brown face and the look 
in his eyes that he was one oi those who have 
come back. 


she saw him hanging on to the willow bough. 
1 what's the matter ? ' she called out." 


"Yes — shell splinter; its taken the devil 
of a time to get it out, but I'm practically all 
right now/' 

" I don't believe you ought to be out swim- 
ming at all/' she said, severely, " How far 
have you come ? " 

1 Oh r I'm in one of the houseboats round 
the bend/'' he answered, " I shall be able to 
get back all right presently /' 

Fl One minute ! " said Meg, suddenly, and 
da si ted, all wet as she was. into the little cabin. 
In a few minutes a heavenly smell of coflee 
pervaded the air. Then she returned with a 
large bath -towel, JJ I think you had better 
have some of my cotiee before you go back/" 
she said, rather shyly. " If you will stay a 
few minutes. Its a long way to the bend 
— -and put this round you so as not to catch 

She came back in a few moments with two. 
cups of steaming coflee on a tray, still in her 
wet swimming suit but with a bath -cloak thrown 
o veHier. Her complete unselfconsciousness was 
with her as she came, adding charm to her warm 
olive complexion and brown sparkling eyes. 

" There ! " she said, rather breathlessly. 
It was the first time she had dispensed hospi- 
tality from her own houseboat and she was rather 

proud i.ft-ii^?ftf ortitfriiro.if *■ and a tnLy - 



-i It's perfect/' said the young man, gaily, 
and though his lips tasted the coffee his eyes 
included many things besides. 

" Do you mean to say you live here alone ? " 
he asked, presently, 

" For the week-ends, yes/ 1 she answered* 
Then, with a deep breath, " Isn't it iun ? " 

His eyes took in the incredibly shabby and 
ancient erection on the indescribable barge 
and came back to the girl so full of life and 
joy who lived there. 

" I think it's very wonderful of you — and 
tremendously sporting, But aren't you ever 
afraid ? " 

" Afraid ? What of — the moor-hens ? " she 
asked, adding in consequently, "The darlings." 

He laughed. It was a particularly jolly 
laugh, full of good humour and bonne cama- 
raderie. " No, other things; — rats — storms — 
pirate* — and so on/' 

" I don't mind rats. I was brought up 
by the river, you see. If there's a storm I get 
into my bunk and stick under the clothes until 
it's over — and I haven't met any pirates/' 

" You are lucky," 
he said, with im- 
mense gravity, " I 
almost wish I was a 

** You would have 
to have a belt and 
a pistol and a feath- 
ered hat and a skull 
and crossbones/* 

" But I should 
hoist my flag over 
your houseboat and 
say, H Once aboard 
the lugger, ha-ha ! ' 
and there we should 

" It doesn't sound 
very alarming. 1 
don t think my 
houseboat would be 
able to put out 
very far to sea." 

M You are right 
there — it's a won- 
derful affair/ ' he 
said, looking over 
it very solemnly, 

" Isn't it? " she 
said, enthusiasti- 
cally and guileless of 
satire, iH Of course 
my great wish is 
to give it a good 
coat of paint, but 
I never have time 
at the week-ends, 
I'm too busy en- 
joying it all/" 

He looked 
thoughtful a 

#l Yes, a coat, or 
even two coats, of 

paint would do it no harm. I think it must be 

really getting rather cold without its coat/' 
" Oh, don't laugh at it. It's a darling boat, 

and I just love it even as it is, but, of course, 

it must look funny to anyone else." 

rf Do you really never come down except for 

week-ends ? " 

" I never get away. I work in a horrid old 

office, and I live in a Hostel for Women Workers 

all the week." 

14 Good God ! " said the young man. " That 
keeps you safe. But the week-ends you escape/' 
" Yes/' she said, with a sigh of joy. 
" And play at being a moor-hen in the early 

mornings. What do you do the rest of your 

Sunday ? " 

She smiled at him, 

" Go on playing at being a moor-hen, then 

cook my lunch, go to sleep, read a book, and 

write letters/' 

" To someone in particular ? " 

M You are inquisitive," she laughed, 

" Of course I'm inquisitive. You interest 

me strangely, as they say in novelettes. But 
do answer my question/' 

" Well j then, no— to no one 
in particular/' 

iriz&d by 





.y/ j 

7 6 


He sighed with pretended relief. 

11 That's alt right, then/' he said, " It would 
be so distressing to think of you living in a 
Hostel for Women Workers all the week and 
then coming down here on Sundays, only to 
dream the time 
away by writing 
to Someone in 
Particular. It 

would be so ob- 
vious and 1 didn't 
think really you 
would do the 
obvious thing." 

" Perhaps not 
— the obvious 
thing would be 
io paint the 
houseboat . ' * 

" What colour 
would you paint 
it. if you ever 
did begin it ? IJ 
he asked, idly. 

11 Oh. blue/' 
she said, at once. 
" Just that shade 
of deep sky-blue 
that would look 
so lovely under 
the willows, and 
the windows, of 
course, would Ik* 
white, and I 
should have pur- 
ple curtains and 

He made men- 
tal notes. 

" Yes, that's a 
jolly colour- 
scheme/' he agreed 
vou mean 




I know just the blue 
like those flowers — what d'you call 
them ? — delphiniums/' 

" That's it, exactly ; delphiniums in the 
evening/' she said, enthusiastically, and thought 
how nice it was of him to understand. 

And so the time passed, and they did not 
know how swiftly it had gone, hot remember 
how unconventional a morning they were 
spending. For on the river in the early morning 
there is no time and no convention, only a very 
delicious unity with things natural and simple. 

At last the young man seemed to come back 
to a more mundane frame of mind. 

" Heavens 1 " he said. ' They will think 
I'm drowned and send search-parties out, 
How awful ! " 

"Are you strong enough to swim back ? tp 
she asked, anxiously, 

* ( Strong enough [ JI he began, indignantly. 

Why, lean swim *" Then he suddenly remem- 
bered his rote of invalid which had been the 
beginning of it all, and changed his voice. 
" Why, yes, I think I can manage it easily 
now, thanks to this jolly rest and your wonderful 


"Are you sure? 
Because there's 
the dinghy/' she 
said, shyly, 

"The dinghy?" 
He pretended to 
put up glasses in 
order to be able 
to see it. " It's 
a wond erf u I 
dinghy, but I 
think I'm safer in 
the water, yon 

know, If > 

« If? " 

" If you'd swim 
with me just as 
far as the bend/' 
he pleaded. ** It 
would be such a 
beautiful send -off 
to your morning s 

" I'll come/' 
said Meg ± gaily, 
11 if you'll race 
me. I'll give-you 
a start* you 
know," with 
much arrogance . 
" Will you. in- 
deed ? All right 
— the first willow 
at the bend, 
He stood up* disengaged the towel with an 
air of grace, and hung it up on the corner of 
the cabin. 

" Well, here goes/' he said, diving off ; but t 
coming to the surface quickly, turned on his 
side tu watch her. She stood there a moment, 
the bath-wrap discarded, straight and slim in 
her swimming suit, poised for the dive + 

A thrill went through him ; she was so glori- 
ously young, so lull of life, of such a sweet 
face and figure. 

Then the waters parted with a plop, and she 
came up beside him, 

Side by side they drove through the water* 
perfect swimmers both, but the mastery was 
to her by half a length, 

"This time you've beaten mc, but wait/* 
he said, when they had got breath. " And* 
good heavens " — he looked up-stream — " there 
is a search-party coming down for me/' 



Original from 
DROVE "TflflttRSm tfratHIGAN 



Obeying seme instinct she dived suddenly 
beneath the water. 

" Au revoir f moor^hen/ 1 he called* softly, 
and turned to swim -with long powerful strokes 

And Meg returned to the dilapidated little 
houseboat and found that it was somehow 
a different place, The peace, the seclusion, 
her exclusive atmosphere, had been invaded. 
There was a sense of something different; but 
something not altogether unpleasant, 


Ik the silent hours of the early morning* 
when only the moor-hens and the water-rats 
were there to see, day after day a punt slid 
downstream and moored up alongside the little 
hidden barge with a hut on it, which is the way 
those who do not understand would describe 
the dream of Meg's heart. And from the punt, 
which was laden with large paint-pots and 
various appliances, two men dressed in overalls 
would emerge and start work, one with sundry 
grunts and groans and much criticism, the other 
with a gay whistling of little Irish love-songs, 
interspersed with startling curses. And behold 
by the Friday morning the dilapidated, un- 
speakably shabby boat 
was transformed into a 
thing of beauty in shin- 
ing delphinium blue. 

" It's getting alonfj, 
McMurphy/' said the 
tall, dark young man, 
stepping back with 
pride to survey the 
wonderful work. 

" Well, sir, I don't 
k n o w — t here's the- 
white work round the 
port-holes to do yet, 
and that there white 
line round the gun- 
wale — she don't seem 
to come up like what 
Id like." 

" Mc Murphy, that 
was my special bit. 
You scoundrel, you're 
jealous of it." 

M Comes of your not 
being a painter, sir/' 
said Mc Murphy, un- 
abashed . ' ' But I don 't 
say you* re not coming 
along fine. Now, if you 
had been at it like me, 
man and boy, till this 
'ere war came and took 
me like " 

"Qh t you're a genius, 
McMurphy . Curse this 
white brush, it's gone 
and got into the blue 
paint. I'd never have 
done the job without 
you — bke many a time 
m France — what ? " 

H ' Well, I'm not saying I can't turn my 'and 
to a job if it comes my way," said McMurphy, 
complacently, M But there, sir, all said an 1 
done, I wouldn't be 'ere at all but for you/' 

u Oh, rot ; you J d have pulled out somehow. 
And we've made a fine job of this old barge, 
anyway. We've camouflaged her so that her 
owner won't know her. Just the right shade 
of blue, too—' blue as delphiniums in the 
evening/ " 

And the young man's eyes grew suddenly 
dreamy and he seemed lost in thought* 

McMurphy continued liis painting with the 
usual grunts. 

" Beg pardon, sir/ 1 he said, suddenly, "but 
what about the inside of this 'ere craft ? " 

Carleton came out of his dreams. *' The 
inside, McMurphy ? I — I'm afraid we can't 
do anything there, can we ? You see, it doesn't 
belong to me, and I haven't got a key or any- 

McMurphy paused in his painting and 
shambled up to the door in the middle and 
examined the lock with the eye of an expert. 

t+ Twouldn't be no trouble for me to get 
that open, sir/' he said. " An' if you w T ants 
to make a job of it— — '* 

"McMurphy, you scoun- 
drel, we should be house- 

" Well, in a manner, sir, 
I suppose we should be, 
but it seems a downright 
shame for to leave the 
inside all crying out for a 
coat of paint, and she so 
smart outside an' all/' 

It was the great quality 
of McMurphy that he liked 
to see a job through. It 
was the very quality that 
had drawn him to Carle- 
*on in France, where as 
sergeant and captain they 
had seen many awkward 
jobs through together and 
stranger ones than the 

what AUNWERftTftdHAtiHKAnuB craft ? - 



painting of a house- 
boat hidden under 
the willows on River 

Carieton peered in at 
the little window and 
then turned, his Irish 
eyes ablaze with laugh- 
ter, "It would be a rag, 
Mc Murphy/' he said. 

' T would, make a 
proper job of it, sir/ 1 
said McMurph}', per- 
sistently. " 'TwoiUdn't 
take no time to put 
a wash over her little 



If Carieton had said he wanted the willows 
themselves painted purple he would have been 
equally ready in his unperturbed surly devotion. 
He did not even know who owned the little 
barge t though he guessed there was a "skirt 
in it." After all. Carieton himself did not know 
much more — only a laughing face, full of the 
joy of living, and a slim straight figure had 
haunted him persistently every hour since 
tluvt early morning, 

Carieton made up his mind. 

" You old rogue, get your paint and brushes— 
we'll do it/' he said. 

Saturday morning early the punt moored 
up for the last time alongside the little house- 
boat, now wonderful in delphinium blue and 
white, and the two men on their hands and knees 
scrubbed the deck and removed all traces of 
their week's work. Within everything was 

spotlessly white and scrubbed fresh, 
and in the little windows hung cur- 
tains of a deep shade of purple. 

Yet Carieton, walking round and 
surveying his handiwork, was not 
sat is tied. 

" Anything wrong, sir ? " grunted 
Mc Murphy, as he tipped a pail of 
water overboard into the river, 

" Paint's all right, McMurphy, 
but it doesn't look finished, some- 
how. What is it ? " 

" Well, sir, beggirT pardon, sir, it's that rug 
and that old chair, sir, and after your own boat 
up the river — they want renew vora tin', that's 
what it is." 

Carieton looked round. 

' You're a sound man, Mc Murphy/' he said. 
" You are absolutely inspired. One more 
trip up in the old punt, then. There's time 
teforc breakfast, and, anyway, I've no one 

coming down this week- 
end, thank God. ri 

He swung into the 
punt as lie Bpoke and 
Mc Murphy clambered in 
after him and cast off. 

1 ' She may come before 
wc get back/' said Carle- 
ton, in a panic, speaking 
his thoughts aloud. 

But Mc Murphy, solid 
and unperturbed as ever, 
comforted him greatly. 
" If so be that the lady 
is coming by train, sir/* 
he said, * there ain't 
none from nowhere be- 
fore midday/* 

" Mc Murphy, you Ye 
the one shining star 
in a dark sky, but you know too 

" I don't know no thin', sir, J cept 
what my wits tell me/* 

They came up to the exquisite 

large houseboat which Carieton 

had taken for his summer abode 

while on sick-leave. He stepped on 

Ixiard quietly, for he was secretly a little afraid 

of his excellent but prim, housekeeper. 

" How much can we take on board t ** he 
asked McMurphy, in a feverish whisper. 

11 Don't overdo it h sir/' advised the sage 
one, " just one of those arm-chairs and a rug, 
and maybe a cushion or two/* 

Carieton seized a couple of small rugs from 
the saloon, " They II fit and they're just the 
colour ; now cushions — hang it, there must be a 
cushion in this confounded barge. Yes, here 
we are I " 

" What about so mo flowers, sir ? ,J grunted 
Me Murphy. " Women like a sight of flowers 
about them, though I don't hold with them 

" McMurphy, you're more than a genius, 
you're It. Wli^r. I many I shall leave every* 

thing miyffi: | tprf q Eii S3 MKtit^tt c the & Tl " 



H1 Mebbe she's chosen already, sir," grunted At two o'clock that afternoon Meg stepped 

M^Murphy. from the landing-stage into the dilapidated 

M Maybe," said Carleton, absently, and was dinghy, plumped her case alongside her and 

about to fall into a reverie again. ^_ 

" Time's going on t sir/' warned McMurphy, ^-1„ } 

" Good God, yes ! Get on with the job. -\ <^ 

Here, these lowers/' f W , / \ V 


He seized a glorious bowl of roses and pre- 
sently the punt slipped down- stream a^ain, 
carrying a strange lump in the middle, to which 
McMurphy, who was not handy with the pole, 
dung in trepidation. 

An hour later the transformation o! the once 
unspeakably shabby little houseboat was com- 
plete. The lock which McMurphy had removed 
was replaced, the paint glittered, the decks 
shone ; and within the little 
cabin was all that the heart of a 
maid could desire. 

Then Carle ton lost his nerve. 

M I shall never face meeting 
her. She'll guess and she'll be 
furious or she'll be frightened, 
or perhaps it's all wrong and 
she won't like it, I've tres- 
passed, I've house- 
broke, I've been con- 
foundedly impertinent. 
I'm going to London" 

He announced his in- 
tention to McMurphy, 
who was irankly dis- 
gusted 4 

" Well, sir, who'd 
have thought of your 
going and losing your 
nerve like that ? I 
should n t have thought 
it of you, sir." 

" You don't know 
women, McMurphy," 
said Carl eton, gloomily. 

" Mebbe not, sir," grunted Mc- 

Carleton punted back to Ma 
houseboat, found he couldn't touch 
any breakfast or read the papers 
or enjoy his smoke. 

" I've gone and done it," he 
thought* with an Irishman's plunge 
from the heights to the depths, 
' H I simply cant face her," 

He caught the early train to 
London. . , . 

Yi^r small parcel of stores, and proceeded to 
row up-stream. If there had been a certain 
subconscious excitement in her throughout the 
week it was not apparent as she came to the 
cool peace of the river, and there was no envy 
in her as gay boats went by and laughing girls 
with young men in attendance gathered on the 
landing-stage with hampers and cushions. 

Then as she came round the bend h and so to 
her own particular little bay; her 
heart suddenly seemed to stop 

There it was — the place of her 
dreams, with the whole dream 
fulfilled. Something like dismay 
seized her — what had happened 
to the little hut on the old 
bar^e ? It seemed to be no 
longer hers h but in its place a 
new and wonderful blue house- 
boat — the real tiling — - 
hiding still a little 
under the willows h but 
like a delphinium petal 
peeping from green r 

J It's a mistake — - 
someone has made a 
mistake," was all she 
could think Someone 
else has taken it and 
doesn't know it be- 
lon gs to me," Sh e was 






very near tears as she pulled hard towards 
it, almost choking in her agitation, 

* H They sha'nt have it/' washer next deter- 
mined thought, " It's mine — but, oh, it's 
just the blue I always dreamed about — -and 
the white windows and purple curtains." 

A few desperate strokes brought her along- 
side, and a hesitation seized her Supposing 
someone- — some new tenant was there ? She 
screwed up her courage. 

, " Its mine p " she said to herself, firmly, 
and stepped on board. 

Half suffocating with excitement she opened 
the door. 


There were her own things — it was all right 
then, it was hers still — but the new paint t the 
glorious rugs, the cushioned arm-chair, the gor- 
geous bowl of roses that stood on an exquisite 
tablecloth I It was her own but transformed 
as her dreams would have transformed it, 

The wonder of it came into her without 
comprehension, and she sank helplessly into 
the chair. 

Someone was hiding in the willows, He was 
peering, with the skill of one practised in scouting, 
through the trees into the little window. 

Suddenly he saw the little figure inside jump 
up and seize one of the cushions and hug it to 
herself ; then, flinging it down, dart to the 
bowl of roses, and, bending over, kiss them. 

" An' that's wasted, that is," McMurphy 
grumbled. " Why isn't the Cap 'en here ? She's 
a pretty bit o'.work, she is, so slim and all." 

Then he chuckled and slipped back through 
the bushes, with the silence of a practised scout. 

Meg slept that night in a wondering dream, a 
dream that woke her very early in the rooming 
and tempted her into the cool waters before 

the river was awake. There was an expectancy, 
a thrill in the air, but she bathed alone, and mi 
smooth dark head popped up in the water besidt 
her ; not that she expected it to — of course 
not ! How could the transformation of the 
little houseboat have anything to do with it i 
But yet — a woman's intuition is seldom wron^ 
though she is often too frightened to whisper 
it out loud, 

The day passed in a dream— but it was a 
solitary dream, 

The next week-end Meg drew up to the 
houseboat with a half dread of what might 
have happened to it during the week. 
This time she found flower-boxes all round 
the flat roof, filled with glorious mauve 
and purple stocks and white toliacco plants. 
Also in the little cabin the rose-bowl had 
been done with fresh wonderful roses, The 
week-end after that she found a delicious 
little supper prepared of cold salmon, a 
wonderful salad, and French patisserie. Also 
two comfortable luxurious deck-chairs had 
appeared on her roof, 

" It is faery," she said to herself, in a kind 

of wondering solemnity. But her woman's 

heart knew that somehow the fairies were 

working through something very human and 

delightful, someone who thought of her. The 

young man who had swum to her through the 

freshness of the morning she saw not at all. 

The week-end after that she was unexpectedly 
given a Saturday morning off, She took an 
early train to the riverside station and arrived 
there before lunch. And she laughed a little 
low laugh as she put off in the dinghy. Then 
her heart thumped as she caught sight of a 
long punt lying alongside her houseboat. 

" It will break the spell," she whispered, 



^■'^QWMNGl'-^IfK BEND." 




half-fearfully to herself. But deep down she 
knew that a spell had been woven that could 
not break. She went on. 

As the dinghy drew into the little bay the 
dialogue that ensued was short. 

" Look out, sir; she's coming." 

There was no time for more. They were 
caught just as McMurphy was putting the 
finishing touches to a little bookcase he was 
hanging on the wall. 

" We're done/' muttered the Captain. 

" Fair copped," echoed McMurphy. Then he 
turned with the imperturbability of his nature 
and drove the last nail into the wall of the 
cabin, leaving the Captain to face the situation 
on the tiny deck. 

" 'Is job," chuckled McMurphy. 

The little dinghy drew alongside, at first 
with strokes sure and true and then hesitating 
and uncertain. 

" Oh ! " said Meg. 

The young man stood still on the deck, 
twiddling a book he was just going to put into 
the shelf. 

The two of them looked at each other silently, 
Neither of them for the moment had the least 
command of the situation. The most real 
thing in the world was McMurphy^ broad back 
seen through the tiny port-hole and his unper- 
turbed hammering-in of the last nail. Then 
suddenly the corners of her mouth twitched 
and she broke into a smile, a little tremulous 
and embarrassed, but still a smile. 

It is ever the one who can smile first who has 
the upper hand of a situation. The young man 
saw it and in a twinkling he was securing the 
dinghy and helping her on to her own deck. 

" So it was you ! " she said. 

Now did she emphasize the " was " or the 
" you " ? The man realized it made all the 
difference ; in the one case it meant she had 
been thinking about him and had guessed, 
in the other that there had been a possible 
someone else. 

" Can you ever forgive me ? " he asked. 

"Forgive you — why, it's like a fairy dream 
come true," she said, in a very low voice, and 
raised such shining eyes to his that he looked 
down into them and seemed to forget to look 

At this point McMurphy came lumbering 
out of the cabin. 

" Beg pardon, sir," he began, with a prelimi- 
nary cough that seemed to him to be the right 
thing to do. 

Carleton turned from his study of those brown 
eyes with a little start and a laugh. 

" Here's McMurphy/' he said, by way of 
vague introduction. " My fellow-conspirator." 

Meg held out her hand to him at once. " I 
think you are two fairies," she said, shyly. 

This tickled McMurphy's usual surliness. 
" He-he-he," he chuckled. " I've been called 
some names in me lifetime — the Cap'en's fair 
good at it when he gets goin' — but no one's 
ever called me a fairy before, and that's truth." 
Then a thought struck into his wily old 

VoL IviiL-6. 

" Beg pardon, missy, but there's one or two 
things in that cabin as I just wants to clear 
up, you being early-like to-day, so if the Cap 'en 
would just be showin' you them new roses 
wot's up on deck " 

Obediently Meg and Carleton mounted the 
little' gangway that led to the roof of the house- ' 
boat. McMurphy had seemed to give them 
no time for protests or explanations. And the 
wonder of it all still held Meg iu a hopeless 
shyness that was not like the cool and self- 
possessed young woman that had dived off the 
deck but three weeks before. 

And all that Carleton felt was that somehow 
he had expected to feel all kinds of a fool and 
he didn't — that was all. 

When they returned from the inspection 
of some new little rose-trees that adorned the 
four corners of the deck they found McMurphy 
and the punt gone. Somehow they must have 
been very absorbed not to hear him blundering 
away with the paddle. - - 

They looked into the little cabin. McMurphy 
had laid lunch , and places were set for two. 

" The old villain — he has marooned me," 
said Carleton, watching the punt just turning 
the bend of the stream and careering wildly from 
side to side in the effort. " There's nothing for 
it but " He burst out laughing suddenly. 

"To do as he meant you to," finished Meg, 
and she laughed a little too. 

" May I ? " 

" It's your lunch, after all." 

So he stayed. 

There was a disquieting moment when Carle- 
ton told her who he really was, for the gossip 
of the riverside had come vaguely to Meg's ears 
of the very wealthy young man who had bought 
the most beautiful houseboat on the river 
wherein to recoup after being badly wounded 
in an action which had given him his D.S.O. 
Something of a hero he was to the small river- 
side contingent, and her heart thumped one 
way on account of his deeds, another on account 
of his wealth, and a third way still when she 
remembered how he had worked for her pleasure 
throughout the weeks and had shyly absented 
himself on the week-ends. But the wind in 
the willows overhead fanned her cheeks till they 
were cool and glowing, and she forgot every- 
thing about him except the man himself. 

Later on in the afternoon they still sat on 
the tiny upper-deck in the chairs which Carleton 
had so thoughtfully provided. And she turned 
to him, smiling suddenly. 

" You have forgotten one thing," she said. 

" What's that ? " he asked, anxiously. 

" The pirate's flag with the skull and cross- 
bones- you were going to nail it to the 

He was silent a moment. Then, like the 
brave lad he was, he took the plunge. 

" I think it is you who have nailed up the 
pirate's flag," he said, in a very low voice. 

" Oh, where ? " she asked, and her heart 
thumped in a different way still. 

" Can't you guess ? " said Carleton, very 
softly, and he looked into her eyes again. 

Is there a Sherlock Holmes among our readers ? 
Here is a chance for him. 



Illustrated by Dudley Tennant. 

Mr. David Devant, the great illusionist, has written a problem story for the 
readers of " The Strand Magazine." We shall publish his own solution of 
the mystery in due course, but in the meantime we invite our readers to 
send in their own explanations, and we shall be pleased to publish — and 
pay for — the one that comes nearest to Mr. Devant's. 

URELY that's someone coining 
down the road now. Listen a 

minute, Sylvia; perhaps " 

The shadow of a frown 
jpassed quickly over the face of 
the younger of the two women. 
She had been on the point of 
saying something that would have beaten down 
and completely frustrated all Aunt Jane's argu- 
ments ; this sudden, enforced silence irritated 
her. She knew that no one was coming down 
that lonely road, but Aunt Jane had to be 
humoured ; therefore Sylvia assumed an attitude 
of intense expectation. 

The rain beat against the windows of the little 
cottage ; the only other sound was the ticking 
of the clock on the sitting-room mantelpiece. 

Presently Aunt Jane, who had been regarding 
the clock as though she would reprove it for 
ticking, looked up at Sylvia and shook her 

" I thought that perhaps he might have come 
by an earlier train," she said. 

" No such luck, auntie. Still, only about 
three more hours to wait for him. Hoo — ray ! " 

She danced lightly round the table and clapped 
her hands. Aunt Jane picked up her knitting. 

" And you're still determined to ride to Den- 
ham Junction to meet him, my dear ? " 

" Of course I'm going ; I promised him I'd 
be there. Besides, I — I want to be there." 

" Well, I call it sheer madness to go on a 
night like this. You'll never be able to ride in 
this wind, and you'll be drenched in the first 
five minutes. Surely even he won't be so 
unreasonable as to expect you." 

" Why do you say ' even he,' auntie ? Jack's 
not at all unreasonable." 

" No — he's much worse than that." 

The retort had come quickly. It revealed the 
inward meaning of the dispute which had broken 

the peace of the little cottage all that afternoon. 
Aunt Jane had tried to persuade her niece not 
to ride to the station in the evening to meet her 
lover. Now it was evident that all the argu- 
ments Aunt Jane had used had been sham. 
Her real reason for trying to keep Sylvia at home 
had nothing to do with the bad weather, or the 
state of the roads, or the difficulty of riding a 
bicycle in a high wind. 

The simple truth was that Aunt Jane hated 
the man whom Sylvia was to meet. If Sylvia 
did not meet him he would be grievously dis- 
appointed. The task of finding his way to the 
cottage by himself would probably annoy him and 
put him in a bad temper. That might be the 
beginning of a lovers' quarrel which might develop 
into a permanent separation. Aunt Jane had 
hoped it might happen, but she had given herself 

Sylvia did not reply at once to the vague 
accusation against her lover. Presently she sat 
down on the floor close to Aunt Jane and put a 
restraining hand on the knitting-needles. Then 
she took Aunt Jane's bony hands in hers and 
patted them. 

" Auntie, let's be honest with each other. 
You don't like Jack ? " 

" I don't think he's good enough for you, my 
dear." (Here Aunt Jane released one hand in 
order that she might pass it over Sylvia's hair.) 
" I've always said that he's not good enough ; at 
least, I've practically said it. But as you're 
never happy except when you're writing to him 
or hearing from him or seeing him, I — very 
reluctantly — allowed him to come here to-night 
.... He's a rolling stone, Sylvia, and you 
know it." 

" He has been a little unlucky in business 
matters ; that's all you can justly say against 
him— if that's anting. I don't think it is." 

" That's not the point. He's ixlways scheming 




to make money instead of working for it, I 
don't like a schemer/ 1 

" I don't think you're quite just to Mm," 

*' I think I am, He keeps us in the dark too 
much. Why, you can't tell me even now what 
this wonderful new sell erne is he has for winning 
fame and fortune in five minutes. You know 
nothing about it* You don't even know how 
he proposes to earn his living." 

" He's going to make money out of his hobby, 

fl His hobby ! Conjuring- A lot of money 
made out of that I Never. It isn't what I call 
a nice occupation— next door to. card -sharping 
it seems to me, No, my dear, the truth is that 
you don't really know how he is going to cam 
his Jiving, and yet you talk about marrying 
him ! " 

M Yes— ^and I'm going to marry him and — I 
trust him.'* 

** And I am not going to marry him," said 
Aunt Jane, with a grim smile, as she took up 
her knitting again, "and I most certainly do not 
trust him/' 

M Well, I think you're most unfair and un- 

Sylvia left the room quietly and closed the 
door. Aunt Jane's knitting dropped in her iap r 
The ball nf wool rolled on the floor and a blue 
Persian kitten, which had been asleep in front 
of the fire, woke up lazily and played with it. 
Aunt Jane did not enter into the game, as was 
her custom. She was thinking. 

She had done what she believed to be the 
right thing. But was it right ? Perhaps by 
expressing her dislike of this man she was helping 
to bring about the very disaster she wished to 
avert. It was the mystery surrounding this 
man's mode of Lving that made her distrust 
him, UfWVEK^'$^t^^|&^ en a Puzzle or 



an acrostic in the local paper annoyed her. If 
Jack had been an ordinary sort of a man, 
employed at some work which could be talked 
about, she would have forgiven him for being 
penniless ; as it was, she really hated him 
because he contrived to hide himself from her. 

Sylvia was moving about overhead, preparing 
for her ride to the station. It was foolish of her 

to go, but she was young and Aunt Jane's 

thoughts travelled backwards. She recalled 
the year when she was Sylvia's age and saw again 
the face of the man whom she had worshipped 
in secret. He had married her sister, and her 
idolatry of Sylvia was partly due to the fact 
that she was his daughter. She must make her 
peace with Sylvia. 

Aunt Jane opened the door and went to the 
foot of the stairs. 

" You'd better take my goloshes, dear ; 
you'll want them." 

" Thank you, auntie ; I will." 
Presently Sylvia came down dressed for her 
ride. Aunt Jane superintended the lighting of 
the bicycle lamp and opened the front door. 

" It's still pouring, my dear ; what a pity it 

* " Never mind, auntie, I can change when I 
come back — in about two hours. Forgive me if 
I seemed cross just now. I — well, I suppose 
I was ! " 

" And your old Aunt Jane made you — not for 
the first time. Never mind, dear ; it's all over 
now. You know I was only thinking of your 
happiness. Take care and come back as soon 
as you can." 

She waited at the open door until Sylvia had 
ridden slowly away. Then she went to the 
kitchen. Aunt Jane knew very little of men, 
but one of her great central notions of them was 
that they were usually hungry, and especially 
so after a railway journey. 

Sylvia dismounted when she turned into the 
main road. Aunt Jane had been right ; it was 
impossible to ride in this wind. She would have 
to walk most of the way to the'station and free- 
wheel down the hills ; there was plenty of time. 
To wheel a bicycle on a muddy road against a 
high wind is not light work for a woman, and 
Sylvia was soon exhausted. At the top of a 
long hill she paused to take breath. Then she 
got on the bicycle and prepared herself for the 
exhilarating rush downhill through the rain to 
the valley below. To her disgust the bicycle 
scarcely § mo ved ; the mud and the high wind 
were the brakes. She began to pedal. 

Suddenly a man stepped from a gateway and 
called to her to stop. Sylvia stood on the pedals 
and the bicycle shot forward. Then she crouched 
down over the ' handle-bars and flew down the 
hill, whispering to herself that she must not be 
frightened, and that the man was probably 
only a drunken tramp, and that she was per- 
fectly safe if only she could keep the wheel 

At the bottom of the hill she thought she 
heard a voice calling to her, but a second after- 
wards she told herself that it was a mere fancy. 
No man could make his voice carry against that 

wind. Besides, why should the man want to 
call when she was out of his reach ? 

She tried to keep up the pace on the level road, 
but she had put out all her strength and could 
not make the bicycle move beyond walking pace. 
It seemed strangely heavy. At last she slipped 
off and looked at the back tyre ; it was flat. 

She pushed the bicycle along till she came to a 
tree by the side of the road. She tied her handker- 
chief to a low branch of the tree to mark the place 
and then let the bicycle slide down into the ditch. 

Two miles to walk. The rain stopped sud- 
denly, the wind died down, and the moon 
looked out from the clouds. She glanced back, 
stopped for a second, and listened for footsteps 
in the distance. Not a sound. The man 
who had tried to waylay her was not following 

It began to rain again, more heavily than 
before, and clouds drew their curtain over the 
moon. She pressed on down the black road, 
walking a few yards, running a few yards, until 
she reached the station. She was utterly ex- 
hausted, but she could not remain still. She 
walked quickly up and down the little platform. 
A few minutes more — only a few minutes — and 

Of course she was wrong. The train was late, 
but it was coming at last ; she heard it in the 

A sleepy station-master and two porters 
appeared in readiness to give the train an official 
welcome. Sylvia suddenly decided to hide her- 
self and then to appear as a sudden surprise to 
Jack, who surely would not expect to see her ; 
he would know that she could not ride through 
the storm. . 

Five men and one woman passed through the 
little booking-office. Jack would be the seventh 
passenger. She knew it ; seven was Jack's 
lucky number. 

There were no other passengers. After wait- 
ing a few minutes Sylvia walked out on to the 
platform again. The two porters and the 
station-master were talking to the engine-driver 
and guard of the train. She joined them. 

"Is this the nine-ten — the Dinthorpe Branch 
train, please ? " 

"Yes, miss." 

" I'm meeting a friend who — er — hasn't 
arrived. There's no way out of the station, is 
there, except through the booking-office ? " 

" That's the only way, miss." 

Then Jack had missed the train. The next was 
eleven-five— nearly two hours to wait. Perhaps 
the station-master would let her sit by his fire ; 
she felt strangely cold. Sylvia drew nearer to 
the group of men and overheard one sentence of 
the conversation. The guard moved away and 
the train continued its journey. The station- 
master turned to a porter and mumbled some- 
thing which Sylvia could not hear. When the 
porter was leaving the platform Sylvia stopped 

" Excuse me— just a second, please. Did I 
hear there had been an accident on the line ? " 

" No, mis^rs r noj.- accident. Some bloke 'as 



Sylvia ran after the station-master and caught 
him up just as he was closing his office door* 
" That accident on the line — -will you please tell 


" Don't excite yourself, miss ; it can't have 
been any passenger. It happened just past the 
bend by the Fortin Meadows ; there's a straight 
half-mile of line there. There was a bright 
moon shining at the time \ only for a few 

minutes tn-nittfit, I should thiuk, and " 

" But the accident," said Sylvia, impatiently; 
11 how did it happen ? Ji 

" I'm telling you, miss, When the train got 
into this straight hit of line the driver saw 
what he took at first to be a bundle of 
something laid across the line, He had 
no time to pull up so he dapped on all 
speed, hoping to cut through the bundle, 
whatever it was. Then he saw that it was 



me how it happened and what the man was like ? 
I'm here to meet a friend who hasn't arrived/' 

" There's nothing for you to worry about, 
miss. This poor chap was not on the train. 
Won't you come inside and get a bit dry by the 
fire ? ,f 

" Thank you, but my friend should have been 
here, and he's not here- What was this man 
like, and how did it happen ? " 

a man/ 1 {Here the station-master consulted 
his notes h) " He was face downwards — no hat 
— blue serge suit— ^a man much under average 
height* The driver let his whistle go for all 
it was worth. The moon was behind a cloud 
then, and he couldn't see* but, of course, the 
poor chap— why, what's the matter ? " 

caurarMcrin 'his -arms "-^tr 1 -tried to revive her- 



Then he sent for his wife and, finally, for the 



The search-party, consisting of the village 
policeman, a railway porter, and two labourers, 
had reached the spot indicated by the engine- 
driver. The party pushed their way through 
the hedge ana stumbled down the bank on t6 
the line. Two of the. men carried lanterns, but 
they were not necessary, for the wind had drawn 
away the clouds from the moon and the wet, 
shining rails gleamed in the light. 

The men looked down the line and up the 
line to the bend at the Fortin Meadows. Then 
they looked at each other. 

The corpse had vanished. 

" No sign of no corpse 'ere," said the police- 
man. " I reckon old Jim must have been on 
the booze and see more'n was there." 

" Not 'e," said the porter. " Jim's strict 



The following evening a paragraph about a 
missing corpse appeared in the London papers. 
The next morning the story, filled in with many 
details, was circulated all over the country. 
People asked each other questions at their 
breakfast tables, such as : — 

" Was it a vision, or ? " 

" Were the suicide and the missing man the 
same man ? " 

4t If the corpse was not that of the missing 
man how was it that Sylvia had heard nothings 
more from her lover ? " 

* ' Was it suicide ? Could it have been murder ? ' ' 

" Had the engine-driver been mistaken ? " (An 
interview in one paper gave the direct *' No " to 
that question.) 

" In any case, how and why had the corpse 
vanished ? " 

Newspaper photographers swooped down on 
Aunt Jane's little cottage, borrowed photographs 
of Sylvia — who was too ill to be photographed — 
took pictures of Aunt Jane, the cottage, the 
bicycle, the spot on the high road where the 
man had tried to stop Sylvia, the tree under 
which she had hidden the bicycle, and the stretch 
of line where the suicide apparently occurred. 
And for the first and only time in her life Aunt 
Jane had to submit to the cross-examination of 

One day, when the public were nearly tired 
of the story of the missing corpse and were ready 
for another problem to solve, a man called at 
the office of a certain London newspaper, wrote 
a few words on his card, and sent it up to the 

In a few moments this man was being closely 
questioned and his replies were being taken 
down by a shorthand writer. The next morning 
that paper came out with a scoop. " Secret of 
the Missing Corpse " was on all its bills 



BLACK. — 2. 

BLACK.— 8. 


White to play and mate in two moves. 

white —9. 
White to play and mate in three moves. 

These extraordinary problems are two veritable curiosities in the chess world, as, in order to complete 
the various variations of the solutions, a knight has to make a circular tour in each. The black knight makes 
the round in the two-mover, which, it will be noticed, is symmetrically constructed, and a white knight 
performs the feat in the three-mover. 

>ty*ti.»s ««•< """DIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 



F civilization can offer no gamble 
to the flying man, Nature can 
still provide him with all the 
hazards of adventure. One- 
seventh of the earth's surface 
yet remains to be explored, 
embracing the most difficult, 
dangerous, and inaccessible parts 

of the world. Nat lire, in these remote regions, 

has defied all the white 

man's attempts to scale 

her heights, intrude 

upon her arid solitudes, 

escape from the 

lurking dangers of her 

virgin forests* Of feast 

his sight upon her 

snowy wastes. She 

laughed his foot expedi- 
tions out of court ; 

but she cannot laugh at 

the equipment of the 

winged explorer, In 

fact, there is little the 

airman cannot do. From 

Gibraltar he can peep 

upon the tribal fanatics 

of Southern Morocco, 

and dwell awhile on 

the Western Atlas 

Mountains* From 

Egypt he has a flying 

ground of thousands of 

square miles in the 

Eastern Sahara, and if 

he is fond of rolling 

sand, the deserts of 

Arabia, too. Both are 

within his reach, and 

he is certain of no ok the a hove map of 

company except what regions are sh 

he takes with him, For a change, the coast 
of the Guianas is ideal for slipping into the 
malarial jungles of the Cordillera of Southern 
Venezuela, and when tired and seeking a brief 
rest he should find a convenient landing spot 
on the Tumac Humac. Or else the desert of 
Gobi from the Siberian Railway, or portions 
of the Polar area that are not " the home of the 
blizzard/* might be worth his attention. But 

let him beware of the 
illimitable forests of 
Brazil, the hurricane 
lands of Western Ant- 
arctica, the windy 
heights and icy crests 
of the Himalayas, with- 
out proper regard to 
the pitfalis that beset 
the unwary in these 
regions* An airman 
would probably fly a 
thousand feet above 
the Great Himalaya, 
the main range, which 
from the south appears 
like a gleaming wall of 
snow and ice. Some 
of the snow fields of 
the Himalayas are 
only accessible from the 
air, and if he landed 
on one, an engine stop* 
page might leave hiui 
marooned in an exposed 
and precarious position. 
It would be hard to 
find any scientific task 
more interesting than 
the exploration of cer- 
asia the un liXittBflkfroiTfiain regions of Afghani- 
° WN 'flNffERSTY OF M|(?fflq^thestudyof it. 






wild pagan inhabitants, the bold Kafirs, and other 
strange tribes. In the north-east corner of the 
country large portions of Badakshan and Kafiris- 
tan are entirely unknown. The mountaineers 
of Afghanistan are among the fiercest of warriors, 
and have always 
resisted the pas- 
sage of explorers 
to their country. 
South -Eastern 
Tibet is still a 
land of certain 
mysteries. The 
course of the river 
Tsangpu for some 
miles through the 
Himalayas is un- 
known. In Tibet 
it is eleven thou- 
sand feet above 
the sea, and it 
breaks through 
the Himalayas at 
a height of only 

five hundred feet above it. This glorious river, 
two hundred or three hundred yards in width in 
Tibet, actually loses an altitude of not less than 
ten thousand five hundred feet. The still-hidden 
stretch of its bed may provide an unrivalled 
scenic panorama of falls, rapids, and gorges ; a 
glorious vista for artist or photographer. 

Shrouded in mist are the supposed ruins of 
ancient towns and other interesting phenomena 
on the barren mountains west of Seyistan. No 
one has ever followed the entire course of the 
supposed ancient channels of the Oxus river, 
and history is consequently denied an interesting 
page upon the fluctuation of the Aral and Caspian 
Seas, and, for those of less scientific bent, a 
chapter on the conditions of an ancient civiliza- 
tion. In mountainous regions of Chinese Tur- 
kestan are unexplored vast glaciers and lofty 
peaks, and there is every possibility of the 
finding of ruins in the untrodden tracts of the 
desert which occupies the centre of the south- 
west basin. 

The aerial wanderer, inspired with a true love 
of adventure, will doubtless be pleased to know 
that not all the Dark Continent is yet an open 
book. In fact, it still jealously guards some very 
black spots. Even in British territory how 
much is known of the inner Shilluk districts 
of the Sudan ; the region between the upper 
waters of the Blue Nile and the limits of the 
Uganda, or the line of the Senussi oases from 
Tripoli or the Cyrenaica towards Wadai ? What 
European has seen, much less trod, huge areas 
within the desert region of Southern Asia ? There 
are other areas which have been crossed always in 
haste and even in fear ; also regions visited 
perhaps by a score of travellers since the revival 
of learning, but inhabited by peoples of whom 
we have learned much less than about the 
Polar Eskimo. 

The greatest unseen area lies in Arabia, almost 
all the southern half of which is occupied, accord- 
ing to native report, by a great wilderness known 
as the " Dwel'ing of the Void." Three travel- 

lers have claimed that they have gazed on its 
uttermost fringes from west, south, and east 
respectively, but no European has ever entered 
this immense tract of 600,000 square miles. It 
is further doubtful, moreover, whether any 

native has ever 
crossed any part 
but certain 
tongues which it 
throws out towards 
the Persian Gulf, 
and towards the 
Indian Ocean 
south-west of the 
latter province. 
Some maps mark 
a caravan track 
running through 
the heart of this 
desert, but at a 
Dutch colony in 
Java to which 
colonists from 
South Arabia 
generally resorted, Javanese Arabs denied all 
knowledge of it. There may be some oases of life, 
and some possibility of travelling in the awful 
waste, but it will be left to the airman to find this 
out over the passage of either eight hundred and 
fifty miles west to east, or six hundred and fifty 
miles north to south in the isothermal zone of 
the world's greatest heat. It is the leanest of lean 
lands, and although it is traditionally supposed 
to contain black Bedawis, and tracts of palms, 
we have as little proof of the true facts as the 
Moslem geographers had in the Middle Ages, 
and perhaps less. 

The biggest feat left for a traveller to perform 
in Arabia, perhaps in all Asia, is to cross the 
Yemen, then on to Nejran, from there along the 
Wady Dauasir to Aflaj and High Nejd. The 
southernmost provinces of these lands, noted for 
their waters and comparative fertility, have 
still to be seen by Western eyes, and it would 
now seem that these eyes will be those* of an 
airman, whose airship will be more than probably 
worshipped as a miracle from the celestial blue. 
He will have to determine what becomes of the 
inland flowing waters of West Central Arabia, 
and to throw light on the mysterious valley 
region which Moslems in the Middle Ages said 
existed on the North Central fringe of the Great 
Desert, and contained half-buried cities among 
whose ruins the Bedawis found coins. He 
should learn much about the mysterious Kahtan 
Arabs, and their possible African origin. The 
Nejd warrior, however, does not like the 
Westerner, and the explorer's machine must be 
equipped with all the means of defence in case 
of surprise after landing. The land is infested 
with religious fanatics of an extreme type, and 
as the whole population is dependent upon slave 
labour, Britont, with their anti-slave views, are 
regarded as destroyers of social wealth. Halevy 
passed through the country for some distance 
in the modified disguise of an itinerant Rabbi, 
and bore indignities toddental to his assumed 

rcli *^ftrt^^i the my from 



Yemen to Marib. Doughty had also a nasty 
lime as a poor Christian hakim who begged his 
way from well to well. 

The aerial mountaineer in Asia Minor should 
find the refugees and survivors of old broken 
races in the highland valleys and the afforested 
slopes, and discover brigands on the Boz Dagh, 
the ancient Tmolus of evil fame, almost in sight 
of Smyrna. Descents down the tributary valleys 
to the Euphrates would reveal data of the Roman 
frontier defences, and show how the Euphratean 
lines ran between the camp of the Tenth Legion as 
at Melitene, and of that of the sixteenth as at 
Samosata. In the ill-known passes of the Tauric 
chain is*a Kurdish society still in a semi-pagan state. 

But for the modern investigator, South 
America still offers the largest field for intelligent 
inquiry. Regions near the Poles and in the arid 
deserts can only lend themselves to the progress 
of material development in a purely auxiliary 
capacity, or provide quaint lore of the customs 
and conditions of effete, or almost non-existent, 
tribes. But South America is teeming with 
virgin riches, that are only awaiting the magic 
Sesame of the aerial pioneer. The western side 
of Patagonia conceals palaeontological and 
ethnological treasures, and entirely new material 
for sociological and botanical study. There 
are the partly unknown 
systems of rivers which 
flow from the Eastern 
Andes and combine to 
form the River Beni ; 
and the maritime Cor- 
dillera of the Andes 
rising over the coast 
provinces of Tacna and 
Tarapaca. The explorer 
has further scope in 
Parinacoches ; the coast 
valleys and the head 
waters of the great 
Colombian affluents to 
the Amazon. One of 
the biggest tracts of 
fertile possibility is in 
Colombia and Venez- 
uela, bounded on the 
west by the slopes of 
the Cordilleras and on 
the e^st by the Orinoco 
and Rio Negro. The 
whole region from Rio 
Branco to the Atlantic 
in Brazil, a distance 
of six hundred miles, 
including a dividing 
range of plains and 
forests, is an almost 
untouched ground, from 
which whispers of 
strange new life, wonder- 
ful vegetation, relics of 
dead races, and untold 
in inviting strain 






minerals reach the ear 
So it will be seen that the 
days of peace and prosperity should bring the 
white man into personal touch with a great 
world of living mystery and fresh interest. 

Equipped with powerful flying machines, the 
work of exploration should proceed more 
rapidly than it has ever done, and soon the 
unexplored environs of the Poles, patches of 
Central Asia, a large interior of Arabia, parts of 
the Sahara, spots in Central Africa, large tracts 
of South America, especially between the great 
rivers, and certain areas of Australia, should 
be on the page of accomplished exploration. 

Perhaps the least-known portion of the 
Australian coast line is along Cape York Penin- 
sula in the vicinity of Cape Keerweer. Apart 
from one or two mission stations there is no 
settlement, and the charts still show by their 
broken lines the nebulous state of our knowledge. 
Only an aeroplane could enable adequate survey 
of these mangrove swamps with their tea-tree 
thickets and scattered eucalyptus. There are 
other parts of Australia, within the interior, 
which will soon be opened up. An expedition 
with aerial scouts is already proposed to cut a 
road across the entire continent from Sydney 
to Port Darwin, which will probably be the line 
of the next railway. This will open the way to 
much fruitful investigation, and gradually the 
clouds and mists that have so long shrouded 
parts of this great country will be pushed back 
until they are entirely cleared away. 

To show the wonderful 
way in which the map 
of the world has been 
filled, it has only to be 
stated that in i860, 
25,024,360 square 
statute miles had been 
mapped from route 
traverses and sketches, 
whereas in 191 6 this 
area had increased to 
37.550.552 square 
statute miles. In i860 
no less than 30,997,054 
square statute miles 
were entirely unsur- 
veyed and unmapped, 
while in 19 16 this 
had been reduced to 
8 - 35°. 794 square statute 
miles out of 60,000,000 
square miles, % the total 
area of the land surface 
of the earth, together 
with the unknown parts 
of the Arctic and Ant- 
arctic regions, which 
may be either land or 
water. With the much 
quicker means of in- 
vestigation of to-day 
a decade or two should 
see the proper survey 
and mapping of all 
parts of the earth's 
surface that are likely to be of any use to a man 
as settlements, or capable of his development. 

Aerial science seems to be keeping pace with 
the dema.nclr> which will be made upon it. One 
of these is the resistance of the engines to frost 





while inactive ; otherwise there is the risk of 

frozen engines and permanent stoppage upon 

landing* This difficulty has no doubt been 

presented between Vancouver and the Yukon, 

where there have been experiments with an 

aerial post, but 

flying in this region 

is comparatively 

simple to the long 

distances to be 

covered in Arctic 


Already an aerial 

expedition to the 

frozen wastes of 

the Polar regions is 

being arranged B 

and the airship 

will, no doubt, be 

on lines that will 

command a big 

radius of action, 

and permit of targe 

petrol storage. 

The tropics 
created another 
set of difficulties. 
The aeroplane 
fabric and glue 
fixtures were found 

to be of a perishable nature in the climate, 
and new substitutes of greater resistance to the 
intense heat were introduced* But to-day an 
aeroplane, adaptable for any hemisphere, is 
within the range of science, and soon the flying 
explorer should be on most routes leading to the 
unknown beyond the regions of civilization, 
His story will be an imperishable and thrilling 
chapter of the history of Nature in her wildest 

But aerial exploration is not to be lightly 
undertaken. There is the cost of aeroplanes, 
hangan^ landing places, and maintenance of 
personnel. Exploration is a stationary thing 
at times, and bases must be erected. It is one 
thing to fly over untrodden regions, and quite 
another to explore it Science demands much 
knowledge from the modern explorer. Possibly 
a nation, or nations, could only furnish the 
necessary means to provide the material for the 
aerial highway and stations which are indis- 
pensable to satisfactory exploration in remote 
quarters of the earth. Hundreds of miles of 
Arabia which no Westerner had seen have been 
flown over by European officers during the war. 
Members of these military expeditions have 
discovered most interesting ruins of half -buried 
cities. But this work was done from properly- 
equipped depots. Military bases and aerial 
post stations may prove the jum ping-off points 
for further expeditions under State aegis. Desert 

flying would lead to the linking up of the old 
caravan routes by tracking successive oases ; 
and then, from the beaten paths, the wastes 
adjoining would be searched for historic ruins. 
The function of the aerial investigator would 

be slightly different 
in country like 
South America. 
Here it was possi- 
ble, if extremely 
hazardous, to track 
the great rivers 
to their tributaries; 
and the tributaries, 
at times, to their 
sources. The old 
'Jesuit priest got 
about these distant 
waterways in a 
remarkable fashion 
but even he could 
not penetrate, or 
leave records of f the 
regions of the terri- 
ble forests between 
the rivers. There 
were no known 
ways through these 
jungles. The air 
scou t , ho we vc r, can 
recennoitre above the forests, and search for 
openings to paths through the jungle, leading 
perhaps to plains and ancient habitations beyond. 
The Poles, of course, present the greates 
scientific problems. An airman may be the 
first to discover whether the Antarctic continent 
is one connected mass of land, or two or more 
lands ; and if insular, give to the world the 
shape of the coast lines and the directions of the 
channels ; also, from his observations and 
discovery of at present unknown currents of air, 
and water, solve some of the riddles of physical 
phenomena that still baffle the meteorologist 
and navigator. In settling the action of varying 
currents, he may put weather prophecy on a 
more reliable basis, and help to improve know- 
ledge of the magnetism of the earth, which is 
still very imperfect. All parts of the world are 
more jointly interested in Polar exploration than 
elsewhere, for all stand equally to benefit front 
the secrets that science may solve through it. 
Therefore, there is no reason why the heavy cost 
of establishing aerial links to the Poles should 
not be pooled between nations, so the work of 
investigation and research be more or less 
regular and permanent. Whatever the ways and 
means, however, the fact remains that the 
aerial pioneer will be the first in many virgin 
fields of science and history, and will in his 
quests find the wine of adventure in bumper 

*Gke list of 'Prize-Winners in the Competition for &iot)et-readef$ 

will be published next m<mth. 



An Amusing Bridge Story from America. 

By R. F. 

ERE is an amusing story from 
America. A lady, whom we 
shall call Mrs. Cadmus-Brown, 
from a small western town, 
was in New York for the auto- 
mobile show. Sh6 rejoiced 
mightily in the opportunity to 
display her newest gowns, her 
largest jewels, and^ above all, her skill at bridge. 
When the opportunity came, she found herself 
at the same table with a dashing young aviator, 
a fair d.bntante, and a man who was evidently 
born and bred in New York, a man to whom 
bridge was evidently a serious business, whether 
because he was doubtful of his skill, or nervous 
about his partner's, she did not know. She cut 
him for the first rubber. 

With a view to putting him quite at his ease, 
she hastened to impress upon him that she 
knew all the latest conventions and doubles, 
and was considered the best player in her 
" home town " ; to which he replied by hoping 
that she wou'd. excuse any little mistakes he 
might make. The smiles of the dsbulante and 
her partner at this statement might have meant 
anything. They had played with him before. 
Mrs. Cadmus-Brown was so impressed by the 
seriousness with which her partner dealt the 
cards for the first hand that she came to regard 
him as a sort of ogre. 

The ogre dealt and bid no-trump, the fair 
d butante passing. Mrs. Cadmus-Brown at once 
said two no-trumps, at which the aviator lifted 
his eyebrows and hastily passed. The little 
debutante led the deuce of spades, and dummy 
laid down her cards, at the same time taking 
a peep at the leader's hand. Here is the 
distribution of the cards: — 

Mrs. Cadmus- Brwivn s Hand. 

Hearts— A. 

Clubs — A, io, 9, 8 
Diamonds — K, 10 
Spades— i o, 9. 

6, 4, 2. 


The Debutant*. 


The Aviator. 

Hearts— J, 9, 7, 3. 
dubs — 7t 5. 
Diamonds — 7, 5, 2. 
Spades— K, Q. 7, 2. 

A B 

Hearts— io,* 8, 5, 4, 2. 
Clubs— Q. 
Diamonds — 6, 3. 
Spades— 8, 6, 5,4* 3* 

Hearts— K, Q, 6. 
Chibi-K, J, 3. 
Diamonds— A, Q, J, 9, 4. 
Spades— A, J. 

The Ogres Hand* 

The ogre won the first trick with the jack of 
spades. He inferred from the lead of the lowest 
*pade that there was no suit of five cards in 
that hand, and that it must, therefore, contain 
at least one club. Now, if he had at least one 


club, the clul>s will fall if the ogre starts with 
the king in his own hand, as, in case the player 
on the right has none, it will be easy to take 
the finesse against the dlbtdante. 

On dropping the queen, he proceeded with 
the jack and three, winning with the six in 
dummy. Although everything was now appa- 
rently plain sailing, the ogre appeared to be 
engrossed in deep thought, while Mrs. Cadmus- 
Brown fanned herself vigorously, and wondered 
what he was thinking about, at the same time 
inwardly wishing that she had cut the aviator 
for a partner. 

Finally he led the ten of clubs from dummy ; 
not the ace, and discarded the ace of spades, at 
which Mrs. Cadmus-Brown, who had seen both 
king and queen of spades iu the debutante's 
hand, gasped with astonishment. 

" No clubs, partner ? " she demauded, quickly, 
placing her fan on the trick before it was 

" Didn't I play a club ? " he asked, in 
apparent confusion, taking up the ace of spades, 
and then adding, " No, 1 have no clubs. Weil, 
as the ace of spades was played, it will have 
to stand." 

The nine of clubs followed, upon which the 
ogre shed the ace of diamonds, which brought 
another gasp from dummy, who was beginning 
to wonder why such persons were invited to 
bridge parties at all. On the eight of clubs 
he discarded the six of hearts. Then he touched 
one of the dummy's diamonds, and started as 
if to put it back, whereupon the aviator de- 
manded that he play the touched card, which 
he did. On the fourth round of diamonds he 
hastily discarded dummy's ace of hearts. This 
was too much for his partner's good manners. 

" Now you can never get dummy in to make 
that club," she remonstrated, tapping it with 
her (an. 

" That is so," he agreed, meekly, leading 
the queen of hearts, "so I might as well get 
rid of it." Suiting the action to the word, he 
discarded the ace of clubs on the heart, while 
Mrs. Cadmus-Brown shook her head in dismay, 
and looked from one to the other of her oppo- 
nents, especially the aviator, for sympathy. 
On the king of hearts the ogre discarded dummy's 
ten of spades. 

The ogre had made a grand slam. 

" Did you ever see a grand slam made by 
discarding all four aces ? " he asked, quietly, 
putting down the score. 

" Well, 1 have never seen such bad play 
succeed anywhere," she retorted, looking at 
the aviator for confirmation. 

" My dear Mrs. Cadmus-Brown," the aviator 
assured her, " your partner is Mr. Sidney Lenz, 
one of the team that won the auction cham- 
pionship of the United States." 

The Beach of Dreams. 



Illustrated by Tom Peddle. 



fejEUNER had been prepared 
for the party in a private room, 
a big room, for there were twelve 
guests all told, including not only 
Cieo's friends, but the business 
men and the friends of Prince 

But before thinking of dejeuner 
or anything else, Cleo had to see about Raft. She 
left him standing in the hall whilst she inter- 
viewed the manager. 

Actually, the business would have been easier 
for her had she brought with her an animal, even 
of the largest pattern. The manager, when he 
had caught a glimpse of the intended guest, re- 
volted ; not openly, it is true, but with genu- 
flexions and outstretching of hands. 

Where could this man be put, what could be 
done with him ? The valets and ladies' maids 
would certainly not eat with him, the visitors 
would object to his presence in the lounge, the 
servants in the servants' quarters. He was a 
common sailor man. Heavens ! What a pro- 
blem that manager had to face, something quite 
new, quite illogical, yet quite logical. He had 
heard of the wreck of the Gaston; and he was as 
interested in CI eo as an hotel manager could be ; 
he understood the whole case when she told him 
that Raft had saved her life ; he was a man of 
broad mind, but he knew intimately the mental 
make-up of his servants, his visitors, and their 
servants. He discussed the matter with Geo 
quite openly, and she saw the reason of all he 
said. Raft wa> "impossible" in that hotel. 
His heroism did not count a bit ; it did with the 
manager, who would not have to sit at table 
with him ; it did not with the waiters and valets 
and ladies' maids who would have to associate 
with him, or the guests, whose eyes would be 
pff ended by his presence. 

" He belongs to a ship," said the manager. 
Then he solved the question with a burst. 

" I will look after him myself/' He ran into 
the hall and called Raft to come with him ; then, 
followed by Cleo, he led the way to a sitting- 
room, a most elegant sitting-room, upholstered 
in blue silk. 

" Here," said he to the sea-lion, " will you 
take your seat, and dijeuner will be served to 

" I have to leave you for a bit," said Clep, 
pulting her hand on his arm ; " I won't be long." 

Copyright, 1919, by 

" I'll wait for you," said Raft. He was a bit 
amazed at all the new things around him, and 
blissfully unconscious of trouble. He threw his 
cap on a chair and took his pipe from his pocket 
— the same old pipe he had lit that night on the 
ledge of the sea-corridor ; then he produced a 
plug of tobacco — the same tobacco whose pungent 
fume had comforted her there, with the sound of 
the hungry sea coming through the dark. 

Then he sat down on a silk-covered chair, and 
the manager and the girl turned to leave him. 

" I will serve him myself," said the manager. 
" I understand he is a brave man, but very rough ; 
the servants do not understand these things. It 
is a difficulty, but after — mademoiselle — after ? " 

" After what ? " 

" After he has had his meal ? " ' 

She understood. After he had been fed he 
was to go. He could go, say, to a sailors' 
lodging-house ; she had heard of such things ; 
or he could walk about the streets. The thing 
was quite simple ; it was only right to give him 
a good meal and some money — a good round sum, 
seeing ail he had done for her. 

She was scarcely heeding the manager. She 
was viewing, full -face, the truth that the manager 
had demonstrated to her clearly. Raft was 
impossible. She had had vague ideas of bringing 
him to Paris and giving him a room for himself 
in her house on the Avenue Malakoff. She had 
never thought of the servants ; she had thought 
of her friends, and that they would think her 
conduct queer. But she saw everything now 
quite straight and in a dry light. Raft was ship- 
wrecked on a social state ; to keep company with 
him she would have to renounce everything and 
live on his level. She could not treat him as a 
servant ; even if she could, servants would resent 
him. He was not of their type, but much lower, 
a labouring man from the sea. Not to lose him 
as he was to her she would have to enter the 
absolutely impossible and absurd, she would have 
to give up social life and make a world of her 
own with Raft. With a man whose setting was 
the sea, the wilderness, whose life was action, 
who was ignorant of art, philosophy, the con- 
venances, who was a figure of scorn to every 
educated eye when caught against the back- 
ground of civilization. # 

In three beats of a pendulum all this passed 
through her mind. 

Then she said to the manager : — 

" Quite so. 7. understand. I must thank you 
very much for your real kmdr.ess. I shall give 

H. de Vere Siacpoole. 




this man a sum of money, and this afternoon you 
mil be free of him. He can find shelter at a 
sailors' home —I have hoard of such places/' 

" Gh, Man LHeu ! yes/' said the manager, 
vastly relieved ; " and either I or Fritz, my head- 
waiter, will serve him with his food. Fritz is a 
man of temperament and knowledge, and I will 
ti plain to him/' 

He hurried off, and she was left alone in the 

She opened the door of the little sitting -roo 3 
The leper was seated hunched on his chair ju 
as she had seen him sitting often on a rock ; 
was surrounded with a cloud of tobacco -smokr 

She had seen the loneliness of Kerguelen, b 
that was nothing to this. 

Poor Raft ! The very chairs and tables shout < 
at him. He JooT-w-d ridiculous* How in h 
wildest dreams, couljd, she JWj e entertained t. 




He would have looked more ridiculous, only 
that he looked, what he felt, forlorn. The place 
was beginning to tell on him, used to the rough 
and the open — the smooth and the closed were 
getting at him. 

When he saw her he took the pipe from his 
mouth and pressed the burning tobacco down 
with his finger nervously — the same finger she 
had sucked once when parched with thirst. 

She saw, as a matter of fact, that he was 
nervous, if the term could apply to such a huge 
and powerful organisin ; and the fear came to 
her that if left alone he might bolt before she 
could conduct him in person to the sailors' home. 

Standing with the door held half open, she 
nodded to him. 

" I want you to stay here," said she, " till I 
come back. I have to talk to all those people 
you saw, and I may be a couple of hours. That 
man will bring you something to eat. You don't 
mind my leaving you here ? ' 

" Oh, I don't mind," said Raft ; " but you'll 
be wanting something to eat yourself." 

"I'll get it." 

" You'll come back, sure ? " 

" Sure." 

She laughed, nodded to him, and closed the 

In the corridor she met Mme. de Brie, who had 
been hunting for her. 

" Cleo, they are waiting ddjeuner for you — but, 
my dear child, you have not changed. Has no 
one shown you to your room ? " 

The old lady had not only brought along Cleo's 
maid, who, with the rest of the servants, had 
been on board-wages during her mistress's 
absence, but a trunk full of clothes. 

" I am not going to change," said Cleo. " I 
am too busy — and too hungry." 

A reporter from the Gatdois stopped her as she 
was turning towards the room indicated by 
Mme. de Brie, where dfjeuner was to be served. 

" Mademoiselle," said the reporter, " I did not 
like to trouble you sooner ; may I crave the 
honour of a short interview with you on account 
of the Gaulois ? " 

" Certainly, monsieur," replied the girl. " Pray 
come to dijeuner as my guest. I hope to tell my 
friends something of my experiences, and what I 
say you can repeat — that will be better than a 
formal interview Ute-d-ttte, which, after all, is 
rather a depressing affair." 

The d'jeuner was not a depressing affair. 
Cleo struck the note. She was in radiant good 
humour. Mme. dc Brie sat on her right, 
M. de Brie on her left, M. Bonvalot, her man 
of affairs, with his long Dundreary whiskers, 
opposite to her ; the rest were scattered on 
either side of the long table. 

At first the conversation was general ; then, 
after a while, Cleo was talking and the rest 

" As I shall be very busy for a long time," said 
Cleo, " I would like now to give all the informa- 
tion I can about the loss of the yacht. A gentle- 
man is present on behalf of the Gaulois, and as 
all details I can give relative to the disaster are 
of world-wide interest, considering the position 

of the late Prince Selm, I take this opportunity 
of making them known. Unfortunately, they 
are few." 

She told briefly but clearly the story of the 
disaster, of her escape and landing on Kergueien, 
of the caves and the cache and the death of the 
two men. She did not tell how La Touche met 
his end — that business had to do with no one but 
herself and La Touche. She gave it to be under- 
stood that he, like Bompard, had met his fate in 
the quicksands. 

She told of her loneliness, and how she had 
been dying simply from loneliness, and how she 
had been saved by Raft, and how he had nursed 
her like a mother. 

It was then that she really began to talk and 
show them pictures. They saw the beach and 
that terrible journey along under the cliffs, cliffs 
that seemed cut out of night and never-ending ; 
the sea, like an obsession, crawling shoreward, 
and Rait carrying her on his shoulder. 

They saw the summit where she had stood 
looking towards the west, and the hopeless pro- 
spect of finding a bay that might not be there 
and an anchorage where there might be a ship, on 
a coast where few ships ever came. 

Fascinated and warmed by Perrier Jouet. they 
followed her to the place where the wind had 
brought her the smell of the try-pots and to the 
cliff-edge where Derision showed her the Chinese 
whaler and the terrible little men, blood-stained 
and busy with butchery. 

She showed them the great serang — captain 
of the Chinese — driving them off the beach and 
telling them to begone back into the wilderness, 
and, vaguely, of the fight where Raft had saved 
her from death or worse. 

" Ah, Mon Dieu, what a man I " cried a female 
voice down the table. 

Cleo stopped. 

"Yes, Mme. la Comtesse," said she; "but 
a man beyond the pale, a man to be ashamed of, 
a man who, were he to sit in the lounge of this 
hotel and smoke his pipe, would drive all the 
other guests away. A common sailor. A man 
rough from the sea and illiterate." 

There was a dead silence. 

M. Bonvalot, a Socialist though a business 
man, nodded his head. He broke the silence. 

" A man," said Monsieur Bonvalot, "is. after 
all, a man." 

" Oh, no, monsieur, he is not," said Cleo ; 
" not in Marseilles. But do not think I am 
quarrelling with social conditions ; there must, 
I believe, always b$ hewers of wood and drawers 
of water. I am just talking of Raft and my own 
position as regards him. I am not thinking of 
the fact that he saved my life time and again, or 
that he nursed me with his great rough hands as 
tenderly as a mother, f am thinking of the fact 
that I have discovered something quite new 
and genuine — a human heart that is warm and 
real and true and simple, simple as the heart of a 
child, a mind that has no crookedness ; a man 
who, in Paris or here in Marseilles, is absurd, not 
because he is rough and uncouth, but because he 
is, like Monsieur Guild ver, amongst the little people. 
I hav2 seen the great, I Lave seen the wind and 



the sun and the sea and the mountains as they 
really are, and life as it really is, for those who 
really live. I have seen death. None of you 
here have ever seen or imagined death, none of 
you here have ever seen life, none of you here 
have seen the world. You all have been pro- 
tected from the truth of things, and fortunately, 
lor the truth of things would break you as it 
would have broken me but for Raft, who sits in 
a room at the end of that corridor and whom the 
manager of this hotel is serving with food with 
his own hands because the hotel servants would 
consider it an insult were they asked to carry 
him his food. 

M I am not grumbling. I quite recognize the 
logic of the whole thing, but I feel as though I were 
looking at everything through the large end 
of a pair of opera-glasses, just as when, as a 
child, I used to do so and amuse myself by watch- 
ing human beings reduced to the size of dolls. 

" Well, now you have all my story, and I have 
put before you a new view of things, and I hope 
I have not shocked you all. My poor Raft must 
now go to the sailors' home, where I am going 
with him. I want some money, M. Bonvalot." 

" Mademoiselle," said Bonvalot, awaking like 
a person from hypnotism and delighted to find 
himself on a business footing again, " certainly. 
I have here your cheque-book, which I have 
brought with me." 

" Then we will go to another room and discuss 
business matters," said the girl, rising. " Now 
all you people, please enjoy yourselves — you are 
my guests whilst you stay in this hotel. Mme. 
de Brie will see that you have everything." 

She led the way from the room, M. 
f Bonvalot following. A suite had been engaged 
for her, and here in the sitting-room she started 
to talk business with her man of affairs. 

A large fortune is like a delicate animal, always 
in need of nursing and attention — it is always 
changing colour in spots, from rosy to dark ; a 
depreciation in Peruvian bonds means that your 
capital has shrunk just there, and the question 
comes — will it go on shrinking ? A big rise in 
P.L.M. shares suggests taking the profit and 
re-investing should they fall again. 

Monsieur Bonvalot had problems of this sort 
to set before the girl — she swept them away. " I 
have no time to attend to all that now, ' ' said she ; 
" some other day will do. I want twenty thou- 
sand francs. Have you got them ? " 

" Twenty thousand francs ! " said Bonvalot. 
" No, mademoiselle. I brought five thousand 
francs in notes, thinking you would want them 
for your expenses here ; but you can write a 
cheque on the Credit Lyonnais and I will get it 
cashed for you at once." 

He produced from a wallet a bundle of pink 
and blue bank-notes and counted out five thou- 
sand francs ; then she wrote a cheque for fifteen 
thousand payable to him. He endorsed it, went 
off, and returned in ten minutes with the money. 
, She put the notes in a big envelope and the 
envelope in her pocket. That same pocket still 
contained the old tobacco-box of Captain Slocum 
and the other odds-and-ends which she treasured 
more than gold. 

" That will do for the present," said she ; 
" to-morrow I will open an account at the Mar- 
seilles branch of the Credit Lyonnais, or rather 
you can do it for me to-day. Give them this 
specimen of my signature, and they can tele- 
graph to the Paris branch. I would like two . 
hundred thousand francs put to my credit here." 

" But are you not coming back to Paris ? " 
asked Bonvalot. 

" No, Monsieur Bonvalot ; not at present." 

He pulled his whiskers. The idea had sud- 
denly come to him, and come to him strongly, 
that she was abput to do " something foolish." 

He had seen wom^n do very foolish things in 
the course of his business life, and all that talk 
of hers at the luncheon-table came back to him 

He remembered the beautiful Mile, de Lacy, 
who had run off and married a groom ; could it 
be possible that Geo contemplated any such 
mad act with that terrific sailor man ? The idea 
chilled his heart. 

Equality and fraternity were parts of his 
motto, and he was an honest Socialist, and he 
believed honestly that all men were equals, and 
that the waiters who served him at table were 
as good as himself, with a difference, of course, 
due to the accidents of life ; but he believed, 
with Daudet, that there is no greater abyss than 
class difference. 

His theory was confounded by his practice. 
But he could say nothing, for the matter was too 
delicate to be touched upon. 



Raft was still in the room where Cleo had left 

As they passed through the hall, where a num- 
ber of people were seated about in basket chairs, 
she felt every eye fixed upon her and her com- 
panion. Then, out in the sunlit Cannebiere 
Prolongue, she drew a deep breath just as a 
person draws a deep breath after a dive. 

She also felt free. 

She had always been free in theory ; possessed 
of her own money, she could have done abso- 
lutely as she liked, in theory. In practice she 
had always been a slave. The slave of a thou- 
sand and one things and circumstances, things 
and circumstances many of them troublesome, 
many of them wearisome, all of them not to be 

" Mademoiselle, your bath is ready." 

" Mademoiselle, the first gong has sounded." 

" What dress will Mademoiselle wear this 
afternoon ? " 

Oh, the day, the day with its hundred phases 
and divisions, the dresses that went with each 
phase, the lukewarm emotions and interests and 
boredom and suppressed hatreds ; this thing 
called the day, which she had first reviewed in 
the open boat after the wreck of the Gaston ds 
Paris, terrified to find it torn from her — this 
thing had been returned to her that morning in 
all its futility. It seemed to her, as she cast it 
away, a horrible: gaud, a thing made of tinsel, yet 



a thing that could de- 
stroy the soul and blind 
the cyi > and numb the 

She had never been 
free, she had always 
been the veriest slave, 
the slave ol tilings, of 
people, of convenances, 
and of c i re u instances. 

Dr. Epinard had 
■{token something of 
the truth, 

Man may not be an automaton worked 
by environment; all the same, he is the ^lave 
of environment, and never such a slave as 
when his environment is that of high 

For there the pure motives of the mind have 
ever to be regulated and falsified, the heart 
crushed, the face veiled. 

To break with all that falsity means ship- 

11 Which way does the sea lie ? ,J asked the 
girl. Raft turned to the left as though the 
smell of the sea were leading him. 

M I'm glad to be out of there/' said he. '* I 
was near smothered in that place." 

" So was I," said she. " Did that man bring 
you your food all right ? " 

*' Another chap brought it/' said Raft ; " a 

She laughed. 

" Do yon know what I was thinking ? " said 
she. *' I was thinking of the time you brought 
me food when I was nearly dying. You didn't 
tell a Dutchman to bring it. I'd have brought 




"Td rather be out 
Raft. +i Not that I 

you your food myself 
and we would have 
had it together only I 
had to talk to tho^e 
people. Well, I've got 
rid of them. How 
would you like to Jive 
always in a place like 
that hotel ? M 

Rift mentally re- 
viewed the room done 
in blue silk. Fritz, and. 
the rest of it. 
in the open/' said 
have anything to 

say against it — but I'd rather be out in 
the open." 

They walked along. 

Companionship with Rait had for her one 
delightful thing about it- It was companionship 
without restraint. In a way it was like com- 
panionship with a dog or a child. Like two old 
sailors, they would hang silent, sometimes, for a 
long time, not bothering to speak, content with 
being together. 

She had never imagined the possibility of a 
man and a woman of absolutely different social 
position in such a relationship, never drawn the 
ghost of such an idea from all the books she had 
read, all the plays she had seen. 

Kaft, the common man, had made her social 
world seem vulgar as well as small, chill as well 
as vulgar. 

She was thinking just now, as she walked 
beside him, how, when she had told him that the 
hotel manager w iiicl bring him something to 
eat, ^^ify QPMOTItGJffl *«* something 



to cat yourself." That was the sort of thing 
constantly recurring in all sorts of ways that had 
brought her to know him truly, occurring in 
little ways as well as in that great and heroic 
moment when he had told her to destroy herself 
with the knife if he were killed. ... , * 

As they passed along the Cannebiere they saw 
a drunken sailor reeling along towards them 
through the crowd, and Raft drew her by the 
arm off the footpath to avoid him. . 

The sight in other times would have made him 
laugh, or more likely it would have been scarcely 
noticed ; but she,Jn some* manner of another, 
made drink discreditable, and the sight of it to 
be avoided. It would have been the same, 
most likely, had he been taking a child for a 
walk. Down near the docks they passed airird 
shop, before which Raft cast anchor, almost for- 
getful of his companion. There were all sorts of 
birds here, those tiny birds from the African 
coast one sees in the shops of the Riviera, canaries, 
and parrots. 

There was one parrot, enormous and coloured 
like a tropical sunset, drowsy-eyed and insolent- 
looking. When he saw the sailor man he seemed 
to rouse up. He looked at Raft, and Raft at 

. " I'd like that chap," said Raft ; " he beats 
the lot of them." 

" And you shall have him," said she. 
. He laughed. 

" Much good he'd be to a chap like me. 
Where'd I keep him ? " 

Her eyes softened as she looked at the bird 
and from the bird to the man. Where, indeed, 
could he keep him ? , He who had no home — 
nothing. Then it was that money seemed to 
her what it really is — a god, beautiful and benign. 

It had often seemed to her as a demon ; but 
Raft, who unconsciously had cast ridicule on her 
world, was now, unconsciously, showing her the 
great truth she had never seen before, the truth 
that money is more beautiful than Apollo, more 
ethereal than Psyche, more powerful than Jove. 

" You will soon have somewhere to keep him," 
said she. " We will get him to-morrow. Come 
on. I want now to find the place where the 
fishing-boats put in. I saw it the last time I was 
here in Marseilles, years ago, but I am not sure 
of the direction." 

She asked a man who was passing, and he 
pointed the way ; it was a long distance, but it 
seemed short, so full was her mind with the plan 
she had formulated before leaving the hotel. She 
talked as she. went. Talked just as though they 
were on the Kerguelen beach hunting for a cave. 

" We will find a place to put the parrot. I 
want a great big boat — not a yacht. I've had 
enough of those. I want a good sea-boat, and 
the fisher- boats I have seen here seemed to me 
good, and the men are the right sort of men. I 
am going to buy one — or hire one — well, we shall 
see. I want you to help to get it ready for us. 
How good the smell of this place is 1 " She 
paused to snifl the tar-sea scents brought by the 
afternoon wind — it was like the smell of freedom. 

Then they came on to the fisher wharf, and 
right into the arms of Captain" Jean Bontemps. 

Captain Jean was about five feet in height, 
and he seemed five feet in thickness. He was 
propped against a bollard, and he was in his shore- 
going clothes. The girl's eye told her at once 
that here was a useful man, a man of authority 
and knowledge. She approached him, and as 
he took his pipe from: his mouth and removed his 
cap, she opened her business without parley or 
hesitation. • 

She wanted to buy or hire a fishing-boat, price 
no object. 

He did not understand her at first. He 
seemed suffering- from some form of deafness. 
Then when she repeated the statement, he showed 
no surprise. 

He himself was a fishing-boat owner, Captain 
Bontemps of the Arlesienne, and he was quite 
willing to sell his boat, for a sum — two thousand 
pounds he asked, and she did not know that he 
was speaking in jest, just as one might speak to 
a child. 

" If your boat suits me I will pay what you 
ask," said she. " Let me see it." 

Then it came upon Captain Jean that he was 
either talking to a lunatic or some wealthy woman 
with a craze. His sails were taken aback, and 
he was left wallowing in a heavy ground sea of 
the mind, with a smell of spice islands tinging 
the air. 

La Belle Arlesienne, his old boat, was not 
worth a thousand pounds ; under the hammer 
heaven knows what she would have fetched ; but 
she was his wife, or the only female thing that 
stood in that relationship to him. He tapped 
the dottle out of his pipe, then he took a pouch 
from his pocket and began to refill ; and the girl, 
seeing his condition, drew him aside, asking Raft 
to wait for her. 

They went to another bollard, and there the 
mariner anchoring himself, she began to talk. 
She introduced herself. He knew all about the 
Gaston de Paris and Mile, de Bronsart. He 
put his pipe in his pocket, finding himself in 
such famous company. She went on. In ten 
minutes she told him her whole story ; 'told him 
just what Raft was and just how they stood 
related, and just how he had been treated in the 

" It's as though they had turned out my father 
or my brother," said she. " We two who have 
fought and faced everything together have 
grown into companions. Friends who cannot 
be parted, Captain Bontemps. If he were a 
woman or I a man it would be easier. As it is, 
things are difficult. Well, I do not care. I will 
do exactly as I like. I feel you will be my friend, 
too ; you understand me, and I want you to 
look after him to-night, for in the whole of Mar- 
seilles I do not know where he could go, unless 
to some wretched sailors' home or worse. Ah, 
it is wicked. Of what use is it to be brave, to 
be honest, to be true in this world ? " 

" Mon Dieu ! " said the Captain. " I will look 
after him, if for no other reason than that he is 
what you say, mademoiselle. But La Belle 
Arlesienne is rough ; should you use her as a 
yacht, L^Utf Ewoj'ld not find her a yacht. She 
smells of fish " 



" I am used to rough things," said the girl. 
" I dread the smooth. Captain Bontemps, for 
one who has done for me everything should I 
dread anything ? And a little roughness, what 
is that to freedom and the life I have learned to 
love with the man I love ? For I love Raft, 
Captain Bontemps, just as I know he loves me. 
Oh, do not mistake me, it is not the sort of thing 
they call love here amongst houses and streets ; 
it is not a woman that is speaking to you, but a 
human being." 

He understood her. To his broad and simple 
mind the thing was simple ; she did not want to 
part with the man who had saved her and fought 
for her, and who had been " chucked out " of an 
hotel because he was a rough sailor ; and mar- 
vellously well he understood that when she said 
she loved Raft she did not mean the thing that 
the dock-side called love. No Paris poet could 
have understood her. The old fisher captain did. 

But he was a practical man. He struck him-, 
self a blow on the head. 

" I have what you want," said he. "La Belle, 
Arlesienne, no, it is no use; I have something 
better — a good cruising boat. You say money 
is no object ? " 

" None." 

" Then come with me, you two." 

He led the way, followed by Raft and the girl, 
to a wharf where a tug lay moored, and by the 
tug a -fifty-ton yawl. 

" There's your boat," said Bontemps, " built 
by Pinoli, of Genoa, for an American. She has 
even a bathroom and a main cabin with two cabins 
off it — your man could berth in the fo'c'sle, which 
i3 big enough for twenty like him. Follow me." 

He led the way on to the deck of the yawl. 

The girl went over it, down below into the main 
cabin with two little sleeping cabins off it. v. She 
peeped into the tiny bathroom, examined the 
pantry, well stored with crockery ware ; there was 
everything, even to the bunk bedding, sheets, and 
towels. She went to the fo'c'sle — compared with' 
the fo'c'sle of the Albatross, it was a little palace. 

Then she turned to Raft. 

*' This is your new home," said she ; " there 
is room for your parrot here." Then, turning 
to Captain Bontemps, " Well, that is settled, and 
now 1 only want a crew and a captain — fisher- 
men. I will have no yachtsmen on my boat. I 
have had to do with yachtsmen, Captain Bon- 

" Oh, my faith," said the old fellow, " you 
will easily find a crew." 

" Yes, but I won't easily find a captain. I 
want you." 

The Captain laughed. 

"And how about La Belle Arlesienne?" 
asked he. 

" You must leave her behind you to be sold. 
In my service money is no object. Now, as to 
this boat, who is the agent from whom I can buy 
her ? " 

" Latour and Company," replied the old fellow, 
for the first time in his life in the powerful grip 
of wealth, and not knowing exactly whether the 
great golden hand was holding him heels or head 

" How far is Latour's from here ? " 

"Not far." 

The girl stood for a moment looking round 
her at the white deck, the masts, the rigging, 
and as she looked some hand seemed to draw 
aside a veil, revealing the stupid, immovable 
houses of the land, filled with stupid, immovable 
peopfc bound and tied up by soul-killing con- 
ventions—and on the other hand the old mystery 
of ships, those homes of Freedom on the road 
that has no boundaries. ■ 

Then she turned to'Bontemps. 

" Come," said she, ".let us go to Latour's." 

"C16o," said the distracted Mme. de Brie, 
writing to a friend, " Cl&> must always have been 
as mad as her aunt De Warens. Fishermen, it 
seems, are the only honest people, and she and 
her cargo of fishermen, with an old man named' 
Bontemps, are* now Heaven knows where since 
I met them at iPortofino. 

" She calls them her children, and when I last 
saw .her she was xomi\g .along, the little quay at 
Portofino helping that big, red-bearded man to 
carry provisions. • * 

1 ".The times.are fevolutipnajry, that's the truthj 
and women are not what they^were, and I am old,* 
I Suppose,' and cannot* see things as I ought to 
see them — and the grief is she might have married 
anyone, she might have, married. Royalty itself, 
and I told her so and she laughed in my face. 
She: said; she never intended tb 'marry anyone, 
that she already had a family of 'children,' and 
that" the great bearded man Raft was the smallest 
of theni all > that she was teaching him to read 
and* write and to talk French, so that he could 
coh verse with the rest of her family. 
. " She had rnade Portofino her headquarters; it 
seems, and she- is the Lady Rruntiful of the fish- 
ing folk there, sits in their cottages ^und talks to 
them, taking up herquarters at the little auberge, 
and sometimes living on board her, boat. 

" A strange life, and yet she seems happy, like 
that poor Mile. La Fontaine, whom I last saw 
at the Maison de Sant6 of Dr. Schwanthaller, 
seated with a straw crown on her head and 
imagining herself a queen." 

One glorious summer day, two years later, down 
in the Lipari Islands, C16o, by the shore, sat 
watching La Belle Arlesienne as she rode at her 
anchor. Nothing could be more peaceful than that 
picture of sea and sky, the craft at anchor, and 
the little boat now putting off for the shore. 

Yet only yesterday an Italian destroyer had 
brought the news, the news that had now girdled 
the whole world, even to the plains of India and 
the cities of Peru. 


War between Germany, England, and France. 

The little boat touched the beach and Raft 
stepped out. He was «iot quite the same man 
as the Raft of Marseilles. He stood differently, 
walked differently, spoke differently. 

What one saw in him r<ow was C16o, the refining 
touch which mind gives to icind, and which 
alters the whole being as climate alters growth. 





He came up towards tier, and she rose. 

" The water is all on board," said Raft, " and 
there is nothing now but to up anchor. ph 

" Walk a little way with me," said she ■ " it 
will be some time before we touch land again, 
and then it will be France/* 

He turned with her and they walked along the 
beach as they had walked along the beach of 
Kerguelen . 

He was off to the war, as were the others, to 
fi ;ht somehow or to help somehow, either in the 
N;t\y of France or England, or in the mercantile 

Cleb was ofT to the war, too— to help somehow, 
with her money as well as her hands* 

They passed a little cape and reached a small 
hay where the gulls flew, just as they flew at 

Digitized by LiOC J 

Kerguelen* but against so different 
a world. 

Geo stopped and turned her 
eyes to the sea. 

All at once the truth of all this 
new business had come to her like 
the snip of a shears cutting her off 
from the people she loved so well 
and from Raft, 

Her throat worked for a moment. 
Then she broke into tears. 

Raft said not a word. He 
knew. Then his hand' fell on 
her shoulder just as it had done 
when they stood on the deck of 
the Chinese ship, with Kerguelen 
fading astern* 

Then, all at once, she was in 
his arms* 

" I cannot part with you — I 
cannot part with you J 1 ' She was 
speaking with her head buried 
on his shoulder. " Yet I must. 
It is like death— yet I must/ 1 
come back/' said Raft, kissing 
1 We are one — we always were — 
Living or dead, it*s the 

" I will 
her hair. 

aye. we always were, 

n Living or dead/' said she* Then, bursting 
out, " You are mine, you are mine — you and I 
together— you and I together/' 

" Aye — aye/' said Raft; " nothing can drift 
us apart/* 

* But if you die ! " 

** That won't drift us apart," said Raft, Then, 
as if speaking through inspiration : — - 

" I shall come back/ 3 

And he did, to a world purged by war, after 
three years of the dark North Sea— to happiness 
and that which casts out class-distinction as it 
casts out fear — Perfect I-ove, 






A TORRES pon dent at Sydney (J. K. IL) sends me 
the following original puzzle* Place thirteen queens 
on a board 11 by 11 bo that, wherever we mark off a 
souare 9 by Q r ths nine queens contained on it shall 
all be free from attack by another queen* I have only 
been able to find one solution to it, but the example 

I give is a very 4 * near try " that wiJ] serve to make the 
conditions quite clear. It will be seen that the square 
9 by 9 can oe marked off in nine different positions, 
cne oi which I show. Six of these positions will be 
quite correct , but the three positions involving the 
outside right-hand column will fail, because in every 
case the queen marked A will attack another queen, 
as shown by the dotted line* Can you find the correct 
arrangern^it ? If you fail, you will smile when you 
see the answer* 

** Yes [ when I take my dog for a walk/' said a 
mathematical friend, H he frequently supplies me with 
some interesting puzzle to solve* One day, for 
example, he waited^ as I left the door, to see which way 
I should go, and when I started he raced along to the 
end of the road, immediately returning to me ; again 
racing to the end of the road and again returning* He 
did this four times in all, at a uniform speed T and then 
ran at my side the remaining distance, which according 
to my paces me asu red 2 7 ya rds , I af te rwa rds measured 
the distance from my door to the end of the road and 
found it to be 625 JeeL Now, it I waik 4 miles per 
hour, what is the speed of my dog when racing to and 
fro ? ' ? 

THE , , . - , men sail around the ,- . , * . 
Eagerly waiting for the . * * . . 
To put an end to that dread - . * . . 
In which the mate T that fearsome , , . , , 

Had tried to prove that - . . * . was 

Their rum he'd doped and made their . - * . * 
A useless thing ; th^y were too . . * , - 
To .... , 
The ten missing words are all in the dictionary and 
are spelt exactly alike, except that the initial letter is 
different in every case, as in taste, waste, paste* haste, 


What is the smallest square number that terminate* 
with the greatest possible number of similar digits ? 
Thus the greatest possible number might be five and 
the smallest square number with five similar digits it 
the end might be 2467777? But this is certaiplj 
not a square number. Of course, is not to be 
regarded as a digit. 

Solutions to last Month's Puzzles* 

Draw a line from A to D. Then draw C E per- 
pendicular to A D, and equal in length to A D, Then 
E will be the centre of another square. Draw a line 
from E to B and extend it on both sides. Also draw 
a line F G through C and parallel to E B and the lino 
through A and D perpendicular to E B and F G 

Now, as H is the centre of a corner square, we can mark 
off the length H E all round the square and we find 
the board is 10 by 10, If the size of the men were 
not given we might subdivide into more squares, but 
the men would be too large for the squares. As the 
distance between the centres of squares is the same as 
the width of the squares, we can now complete the 
board with ease as shown in the diagram inset* 

The words are as follows : a, as, sea, ears, cares, 

recast, coaster ancestor, 
Don caster, second-rate, 
consecrated. A new 
letter is added at each 


; * * *? 



• m mm 



* * 

» m 





# • 

Uri q 1 nai irom 

Diversity of MicHfStfn 

Place the second 
column under the fir^t 
and the third under 
the second (the column 
is broken merely for 
convenience in print- 
ing) and the conditio r .- 
will be found to be ful- 






FOR field-path or road, for mountain side or 
pavement, wear Wood-Milne Rubber Soles 
and Heels. The sportsman, be he fisherman 
or golfer, will enjoy the wonderful comfort of the 
resilient rubber of Wood-Milne Soles and Heels. 

the appearance of the boots and shoes, lengthen their 
life, and considerably reduce the expense of repairs. 


Adjustable soles and heels 

Wear Wood- Milne Rubber Soles and Heels once and you 
will wear them always. Made in all sizes, shapes, and 
qualities to suit all kinds of footwear. Stocked and fixed 
by all bootmakers. Look for the name (£ M^ood- Milne." 


/^^- n f . Original from 



{£#* page 



VoL $S. 

AUGUST, 1919. 

No. 344, 

M r MiIler &> 

day when ex- 
plorers and 
rake over the junk 
of Britain's forgotten 
cities, as to-day they 
rake the mounds 
where Tarquin lorded 
it, and reconstruct 
Etruscan history 
from her crockery 
ware, against such a 
day when paper and 
parchment and even 
sheep - skins have 

perished with the writings and drawings thereon, 
I trust that Frank O, Miller will inscribe in 
permanent form the story of his supreme 
moment, when patriotism overcame sentiment, 
and duty elbowed his sense of drama into the 
background . 

The loyalty of Frank Oscar Miller transcends all 
other stories of its kind r for it was loyalty shown 
long after the last shot was fired and when war 
was a subject, abhorrent equally to the tax- 
payer and the magazine editor, and when you 
might expect a man of romantic character to 
take a lenient view of his responsibilities to that 
state in which it had pleased God to place 
bini. * 

There was a time when Frank O. Miller was 
just plain Franz Oscar M tiller. He had changed 
his name in the 'nineties, having acquired by 
marriage service and purchase the business of 
Sloane Miller, Limited. It was in deference to 
his father-in-law's wishes, who, having no son. 
desired the perpetuation of his name, that 
Franz 0* became Frank CX 

The company had pros pe red exceedingly. 
The Sloane Miller building, with its twelve 
floors and its julded cupola, is a monument to 
Millerian industry. The Miller demesne at 
Ha mpstead is a palace, and Mrs, Miller's 




emeralds, which are 
kept, according to 
all accounts* in a 
small safe between 
the twin beds in 
Mr. and Mrs. Millers 
gorgeous bedroom, 
are worth a kings 
Incidentally, many men who were in no ways 
interested in securing the liberty of distressed 
monarvhs had attempted to prove that asser- 
tion. But Mr. Miller was a pretty handy man 
with a gun His safe was electrically controlled, 
and after Pal Morris* Lew Jakobs, and "* Fla<h '* 
Joe had successively made their attempts, had 
failed, and had passed to their country homes, 
it was agreed in the circles whence they came 
that Mrs, Miller's emeralds were not perhaps 
worth trying for. Even * Snakie M Smith, Un- 
elected President of the Guild, and swellest 
and cleverest of all the mobsmen, turned 
down the proposition without *looking at it, 
though he might as well have tried because lie 
was ca ught j a few weeks later in compromising 
circumstances (and a bank vault) and went out 
of town. 

This was in the year of grace ioog, and the 
emeralds have increased in value and size and 
general magnificence, and the Sloane Miller 
building has risen, and Mr. Miller himself has 
grown stouter since then, and the first Mrs. 
Miller has died and has been succeeded by the 
second Mrs. Miner {Ijcrn StohwasscrL 

him. He subscribed heavily for War stock, gave 

VdL ItuL-T 

Copyright,. 19 19, by Edgar Wallace. 



largely to all the war charities, and if he had had 
one son he would have sent him with the first 
divisions to fight for freedom. Unhappily, he 
was childless. 

He was sitting in his library one night in the 
early part of this year, when Jackie Strauss 
came in, dropped his hat on the floor, hunched 
himself into the corner of a settee, and swore 
thickly through his cigar. Mr. Miller looked 
over his spectacles at his old friend. 

"What's wrong, Jackie ? " he asked. 

Jackie growled something, and a slow smile 
spread over the placid face of the head of the 
Sloane Miller Corporation, for that day he had 
pulled off a business deal, beating his com- 
petitors to the wire, and ^the chief of his 
competitors was the Strauss Machinery Trust, 
Limited. But it was evidently not the successful 
rivalry of his friend which disturbed Mr. Strauss. 

'♦We've won the war, haven't we ? " he 
demanded, fiercely, and he was evidently 
speaking .under the stress of a strong emotion. 
44 We've got Germany like that," he put his 
big thumb down suggestively. " Ain't that so ? 
Well, why don't we leave 'em alone ? See 
here, Franz. I'm British. To me there isn't a 
country like this in the world — though they 
tried to intern me. The only time I have been 
in Germany in the last twenty years I was 
treated like a criminal. But you've got to 
admit, Franz, he's the Big Man. He may have 
made this war or he may not. But he did make 
Germany big." • 

Mr. Miller took off his glasses, folded them 
slowly, and put them in his waistcoat pocket. 
He looked at his companion dubiously and 
thoughtfully, and rubbed his nose with the 
knuckle of his forefinger, a sure sign of his 
perturbation. There was no need to ask who 
*'he" was. He knew instinctively, and there 
was a little echo of approval in the secret deeps 
of his mind. 

u Don't talk like that in front of Bertha," 

he said, after a while. " Bertha is " he 


Loyalty to his wife prevented his completing 
the sentence. 

" Well, she's never been wholly with us, 
Jackie, as you well know." 

Mr. Strauss nodded. 

* 4 1 won't say that you're not right," Mr. 
Miller went on. "I don't like to see a man 
kicked when he's down, but I'm British first, 

*• Ain't I ? M demanded Jackie, truculently, 
his grey-shot moustache bristling ; ** but I've 
got something here," he pounded his spotted 
waistcoat with his fists, ** right down inside me 
that makes me go just cold and sick when I 
hear these fools, who never had an original 
thought in their lives, talking about trying him 
and hanging him ! I'm a Brandenburger, 
Franz. My relations for hundreds of years 
have been Brandenburgers. It's in my blood 
and soul, this feeling for — for him. I don't 
care if he's guilty as hell. I don't care if we 
suck Germany dry, if we chuck her fleet on the 
muck-heap — I'm for him ! " 

Mr. Miller shifted uneasily. He had his own 
feelings, for his ancestry went _ back to the 
Mark, and the best-known of his ancestors had 
been body-servant to the Great Elector himself. 

'* Don't -say anything in front of Bertha 
about this," he repeated, mildly. 

" Why not ? And don't say anything about 
what ? " asked a voice behind him, and he 
turned to meet the cold eye of Bertha Miller 
(n£t Stohwasser^, who never called herself any- 
thing but Muller. 

She was a good-looking woman in the early 
forties, dark, swarthy, rold of eye and manner, 
and now she looked from her husband to his 

"Jackie's been talking — politics," said Mr. 
Miller, feebly. 

" I heard. Who is the * he ' you're speaking 
about ? " she asked. 

** Oh, never mind," said Mr. Strauss, loyally. 
" I hear you got that contract to-day, Franz " 

"You were talking about the Emperor," said 
Mrs. Miller, not to be put off, ** and I agree with 
you, Jackie. It's an abominable shame, the way 
people are talking. There isn't a worse-repre- 
sented man in the world." 

" Let's have some coffee," said Mr. Miller, 
hastily, " and for Heaven's sake, Bertha, get 
off that subject." 

" You know it," she accused, " but you 
haven't the spirit of Jack Strauss. I can't 
understand how you can stand by and hear 
these people abuse him. I told that wretched 
woman, Sanderson, to-day just what I thought 
of her when she said they ought to hang him." 

" Oh, lord," said Mr. Miller, in dismay, " why 
don't you keep your mouth shut ? I'm a 
business man, and I can't afford to have my. 
business ruined, and ruined it will be if your 
views get about. People will say they are 

" Pah ! " said the wife of his bosom, contemp- 
tuously, and addressed herself to Mr. Strauss. 
" It breaks my heart every time I think of it," 
she said, passionately ; " I can hardly let my 
mind dwell on it. Think of it, Jackie 1 He 
who has had all the kings of Europe at his feet, 
who had only to lift his hand to have the world 
shake, who put Germany high amongst the 
nations, and is now an exile in a little Dutch 
village, lonely " — her voice choked. 

Mr. Miller, looking from her to his friend, 
saw a light in the eye of Jackie which he had 
not seen before, a suppressed eagerness which 
was more eloquent than speech — saw him lean 
forward and lay his hand on Mrs. Miller's arm. 

" But is he ? " he asked, softly. 

"Is he what ? " she answered, her handker- 
chief half-way to her eyes. 

" Is he at Amerongen ? " 

She dropped her hands on her lap and stared 
at him. 

" What do you mean ? " 

" I wasn't going to tell you," said Strauss, 
speaking quickly, " but T guess it's got to come 
out, and I know I can trust you both. Who 
has seen the Kaiser at Amerongen ? Nobody ! 
The reporters have stood at the gates and have 




seen somebody in a grey cloak* But who has 
seen his face ? A lew villagers who have never 
seen the Emperor in their lives, and they only 
know it's him because they are told. Who, who 
has seen the Emperor in the life, has seen him 
at Ame range n ? Nobody t We only know he's 
there because we are told he's there." 

" What do you mean ? ' J asked Mrs. Miller 
again, her breath coming faster- 
Strauss drew his chair nearer to her and 
lowered his voice, 

M I'll tell yon," he said- " One of my cashiers, 
a man named Tells, embezzled nearly a thousand 
pounds from me. That was five years ago. He 
was arrested and sent to penal servitude for 
five years. He was a married man, and I did 
all I could for him, and I told him when he 
came out of prison he was to come and see me. 
He turned up last week — ■ — " He paused im- 

" Well ? M said Mr. Miller, not the least 
interested of the two. 

" I don't think he'll go straight. He's got 
into pretty bad company," Strauss went on ; 
" in fact, he is already a member of a gang, 
working under ' Snakte r Smith. You have 
heard of him I He's the biggest thing in the 
criminal world, and he came out of prison a 
week before Tells. Now, these criminals," he 
wtent on* speaking slowly and with emphasis. 

" have an intelligence organization of their own. 
There is hardly a Government secret that they're 
not up to, and lately some of them have been 
approached to shepherd a mysterious man who 
is coming from the Continent and is on his way 
to America/' 

Mr. Miller nose quickly. 

" Pshaw! " he said. f ' Impossible I Why 
should they engage those kind of fellows to look 
after ? Bah I It's ridiculous I '* 

He was agitated, and showed it- 
Mrs. Miller sat' with her bright eyes fixed 
upon Strauss. She was in a rosy dream of glory, 
in that glow of exaltation which the novice 
before the altar, or the Eastern bride meeting 
her lover for the first lime face to face, might 

" Go on," she whispered. 

11 Who could better look after him than these 
men who spend their lives dodging the police ? " 
said Mr* Strauss, speaking rapidly, " and I tell 
you that the Emperor is not in Holland, Tells 
hinted at it." 

fJ Rubbish ! " said Miller, his voice quavering, 
" Would they put him at the mercy of a bunch 
of crooks ? Why, at any moment, any one of 
them might go to the police I " 

" And be de^d in twenty-four hours," said 

Mr. Sli|#^RgtW£)F ffil Srtt.jWf^ tne * r code, 
that class of person* I have looked up Smith's 



record. He is the very man who would under- 
take this work ; a daring, resourceful man, with 
a good manner. He has been in every big 
crime that has been committed in this city 
since he was a boy of fifteen." 

Mrs. Miller sighed, the long happy sigh of a 

44 He may come here — to London • . • . 
Wonderful 1 Wonderful ! " 

" Dam' stupid ! ". snapped Miller. " I tell 
you I'm not in this, Strauss. I am real genuine 
British. They've treated me decently. The 
laws of this country are my laws, the enemies 
of this country are my enemies." 

His wife turned in a fury. 

•" And you can say that, you can say that ! " 
she hissed, " you a Branden burger at heart ! 
Don't you feel — doesn't your heart leap at the 
very thought of it ? " 

" No," said Mr. Miller, truthfully. 

This was the guilty secret which he carried 
to his office, which walked at his elbow in the 
crowded street, which sat at the opposite side 
of his desk in his suite on the eighth floor of the 
Sloane Miller building. He saw Jackie Strauss 
the next day and purposely avoided him. He 
gave up eating at his favourite restaurant in 
Piccadilly and patronized the less fashionable 
Soho, where he knew Jackie, with his luxurious 
taste, would not venture. 

Mrs. Miller saw Jackie frequently. She had 
consultations with him, and they met at lunches 
and at teas. Once at dinner in the family 
mansion, when the servants had been dismissed, 
she started in to tell her husband. 

" Jackie thinks " she began, and Franz 

Miller dropped his knife and fork with a crash. 

" I don't want to know what Jackie thinks," 
he said, sternly ; " now, get that stuff out of your 
mind, Bertha. If you insist upon remaining a 
German, remember that a German woman's first 
duty is obedience to her husband." 

" But I want4o tell you ! " - ■ 

** I don't want to know," roared Mr. Miller, 
purple of face, and emphasizing his words with 
thunderous smacks on the table. " I tell you I 
don't want to know. You're mad, Bertha, 
stark, staring, raving mad." 

"He's not at A me ron gen, "blurted his wife, 

"He may be with the devil for all I care," 
roared Miller. " Perhaps you are right, perhaps 
that crazy story is true, but I tell you I don't 
want to know, and if you don't stop talking I'll, 
I'll " 

He looked so ferocious, and his hand clutched 
the plate so convulsively, that his wife wilted. 
He apologized for his anger after dinner, and 
she received his apology meekly. 

The Millers made a point of retiring for the 
night at 11.30, and Franz was smoking his last 
cigar and reading for the last time the closing 
prices, when the butler came into the room. 

" There's a man who wishes to see you, 

Mr. Miller had a sinking sensation at the pit of 
his stomach. 

" Er — a man," he stammered. 

He did not look at his wife, for he could almost 
feel the emanation of her radiant mind. 

" Rather a tough -loo king fellow, sir. He 
wants to see you privately." 

Miller hesitated. 

" Show him in here," he said. 

" Perhaps— — " whispered a voice at his elbow. 

" Be silent, woman ! " he thundered. 

It was a relief to hear the sound of his own 
harsh, aggressive voice, and he found courage in 
his own violence. 

The man who followed the butler was certainly 
not the man Mr. Miller dreaded to see. He was 
a short, bull-necked fellow, with keen, intelligent 
eyes, and a straight line of mouth. , He waited 
till the butler had retired. 

" I've got a message for you," he said, gruffly. 
" I dare say you've seen me before." 

" I don't know — who are you ? asked Mr. 
Miller, suspiciously. 

The man looked round to see that the door 
was closed. 

" I am ' Snakie ' Smith," he said. 

" Yes, yes," broke in Mrs. Miller, impetuously ; 
" have you a message ? " 

The man searched his pockets, produced a 
large white envelope and handed it to the 
reluctant Mr. Miller. 

" Say." he said, confidentially, " I'm not in 
this. You don't know me. See ? If anybody 
asks you whether ' Snakie ' Smith has been, you 
have never heard of me ! " 

" No, of course not," ?aid the woman, eagerly. 

" Will you be quiet, Bertha ? " demanded 
Mr. Miller, angrily. •" Why should I compromise 
myself ? What is this letter about ? " 

He did not open it, he dared not open it, and 
the messenger, noting his agitation, grinned. 

4f So long," he said, with a familiar nod of his 
head and, swinging round, stepped quickly into 
the hall,. where the butler was waiting him, and 
they heard the thud of the street door close 
behind him. '» 

Mr. Miller turned the letter over and over. 
It was addressed to him in a large, sprawling, 
and unmistakably* German hand. 

" Open it, Franz," said his wife, in an agony 
of suspense. 

Mr. Miller took a long breath and opened the 
envelope. The sheet which he extracted was of 
heavy paper, and on the top left-hand corner was 
a double-eagle, embossed in black. He adjusted 
his glasses with trembling fingers and read : 

" At 11.30 to-night there will arrive one who 
has no home but the hearts of his people. Give 
him your hospitality for three nights before he 
passes on." 

He read it three times and handed the letter 
to his wife. She stood rapt, transfigured, her 
eyes fixed upon the page. 

" It's true," she whispered. " My God ! It's 
true 1 How wonderful ! " 

Miller stood, a helpless, ludicrous figure, his 
mouth agape, his pale blue eyes wandering about 
the room, then — 

" I've got to dttlitllff'he said, hoarsely, " I've 



" Send the servants to bed/' he said ; " lelt 
them we have a guest. He must have the best 
room in the house. Will you^ -" 

" I'll see to it. I'll see to it," she said, in a 
choked voice, and flew from the room. 

Hie sat heavily down in a low chair, his head 

between his hands, bewildered, crminei 
seemed that the whole direction of his 01 
life had been taken from his hands. He 1 
the grip oi a force and a power stronger, 
i|ii$i|Uibie than fcj^&HI'.jTWs was Fate, Ki 
the Inevitability which was more treme: 



than his will could harness. It crept over him, 
this new spirit of servitude, this atavistic impulse 
to obey. The blood of dead generations of 
Miillers who had buckled on -their swords and 
tramped to the red West at the word of their 
sovereign lord sung through his veins, but to 
him the song was a dirge. 

It was a quarter to twelve when the sound of a 
motor-car coming up the drive brought him to his 
feet. The car stopped before the house. There 
was a little interval and then a bell tinkled. He 
himself went to the hall and threw open the door. 

The car was moving on as he did so, but 
a man was standing in the entrance, a medium- 
sized man, covered from shoulder to heel in a long 
black cloak, a soft felt hat of the same hue was 
pulled over his eyes, and in one hand he carried a 
battered portmanteau. 

Mr. Miller mumbled something and bowed from 
his hip downward. He had never bowed like 
that before, but he knew that he must do so. 
The stranger stepped into the hall without a word 
and the door was closed and bolted behind him. 

Mrs. Miller was in the open doorway of the 
library. She ' stumbled forward, caught the 
stranger's hand and, bending, kissed it. 

" This is the way," she said, huskily, and went 
before him, Mr. Miller bringing up the rear. 

The stranger stripped his cloak with his right 
hand — tljey noticed that he kept his left in his 
pocket — and with the same motion took off his 
hat. Tears blinded the woman. She could only 
see the dim outlines of a well-beloved face. 

Mr. Miller, though his pulse was beating a 
tattoo, noted the sallowness, the trim up-turned 
moustache, less exaggerated than he had 
expected, the tired eyes, the firm chin, the hair 
brushed straight back from the forehead. 

" Is — would you like something to take ? " he 
asked, shakily ; " would your Majesty " 

The stranger raised his hand. « 

" You will please not use that word," he said, 
and his voice was gentle and sad. " I fear I am 
embarrassing you." 

"No, no, certainly not," gasped Mr. Miller; 
" would you like some wine ? " 

The stranger shook his head. 

" I am very tired," he said; " perhaps you 
would show me to my room. I am afraid I have 
not a servant." 

His smile was very sweet. As he stooped to 
pick up the bag Mrs. Miller made a movement to 
forestall him. 

" No, no," he said, gently, " I can manage 
Tnyself. I must not be a greater trouble to you 
than I can help." 

"It is no trouble, oh, I assure you it is no 
trouble," she cried. " If Excellenz " 

" You must give me no title — please," he 
said, and he inclined his head toward the door. 

She led the way up the stairs, though her 
knees were shaking under her, and again Mr. 
Miller brought up the rear. 

" I could ask no better than this," said the man. 

He had been wearing under his cloak a stained 
grey uniform that fitted him like a glove. It 
was plain, without any ornament or decoration, 
but it was unmistakable. 

" I came on a tramp steamer," he said ; "it 
was rather — uncomfortable." 

He dismissed them with a bow, and with no 
further word, and they went down together 
and sat for two hours facing one another, 

At 2.30 Mr. Miller rose. 

" I am going to bed," he said, heavily; " you 
have arranged " 

She nodded. 

" I will see to his breakfast myself ; nobody 
is to go into the room. I have told Parker and 
he will tell the servants that it is a friend who is 

" So ? " said Mr. Miller, and mounted to bed, 
but not to sleep. 

He went to his office the next morning, a 
criminal in mind and, if truth be told, in appear- 
ance. He lunched at a restaurant even more 
remote than any he had yet patronized. Somehow 
he dreaded returning to his secret, and, dismissing 
his car, he made a leisurely way homeward by 
motor bus. 

Mrs. Miller was a very subdued, silent woman, 
but the fit of exaltation was still on her. She 
walked and moved as one who had seen a vision ; 
was laconic but humble. When she spoke of 
the stranger her voice dropped to a pitch of 

" I have only seen him for a little while." she 
said ; "I took his lunch and breakfast to him. 
To-night when the servants are in bed he wishes 
to take a stroll in the grounds. Will you — will 
you accompany him ? " 

" No," said Mr. Miller, shortly. He gulped. 
" No," he repeated. Then the grip of the old 
service fastened about his neck. " Yes, I will/* 
he said. 

It was a melancholy exercise, for neither spoke. 
The stranger walked a little in advance, his head 
bowed, his mind evidently occupied. As for 
Mr. Miller, he was torn between his old devotion 
and his new allegiance. 

" I'm British ! " he kept muttering to himself, 
as though it were some magic incantation which, 
repeated often enough, would restore his 

The second day was a repetition of the first, 
but at nine o'clock came a diversion. Another 
stranger called, a clean-shaven, alert-looking 
man, who craved a private interview, and was 
ushered into the library, Mr. Miller quaking with 
apprehension . 

" Sorry to bother you at this hour of the night, 
Mr. Miller," said the stranger, briskly. " My 
name is Floyd. I am from Scotland Yard." 

Franz did not faint. He stretched out an 
unsteady hand and caught the back of a chair 
for support. 

" Oh, yes," he said, faintly; " a detective ? " 

" That's it, sir," said the brisk stranger. " It 
has been reported to me that an old friend of 
mine was seen giving your house a look-over the 
other day." 

day ? " repeated Mr. Miller, 
qinal from 

The other 
" Four or 
and Mr. Miller breathed 

[l^aid the detective, 
more freely. " He's a 



well - known th i ef , 
named Smith — - 
' Snakic J Smith; 
you may have 
heard of him.' 1 

"Oh, yes/ J said 
Mr. Miller ; " Smith 
— er — did come to 
the house at — er— 
my invitation/" 

M At your invita* 
lion ? " 

" Yes/' said the 
other . ' ' The fact i s t 
Mr. Floyd, I am — er 
— trying to reform 
him, getting ^him 
to go straight/' 

Floyd smiled in- 
dulgent ly as a 
mother might smile 
at the fancies of her 

"Reforming him, 
eh ? Well, you've 
got some job I He's 
a bad boy, Mr, 
Miller, He's the ' 
man who pot away 
with Mabel Joyce's 
tiara, the actress* 
you know. He was 
in the same com- 

"I've heard 
about it/' said the 
desperate Mr. Miller, 
"but I really think 
he is reforming 
now. r p 

" You'll find it an expensive process/' said 
Floyd, grimly. 

He took his leave, but the relief at his departure 
was nothing like the relief that Mr. Miller felt 
that the police had noted the arrival of " Snakic " 
Smith but had not observed The Man. He 
must be warned, If the police were watching 
" Snakie/' sooner or later they would hit upon 
1 heir greatest discovery. 

But he had no opportunity of warning. He 
could only tell his wife, and somehow he had got 
out of the habit of discussing things with his wife 
and had hardly spoken to her since the stranger 
had arrived. Yet he managed to convey some- 
thing of his fears to her. He came back earlier 
the next day, and if she had been exalted before 
she was now so beyond recognition. She hardly 
waited for the door to close on him before she 
told her news, 

" He is leaving to-night,' Fran V she whispered, 
" A car will call for him at eleven* He is going 
West . . , on to America. He has friends 
there. Oh, and Franz, don*t think that every- 
thing is lost. He has loyal friends, they are 
working for him, Franz, and he will come to his 
own. He will wrest from their hands everything 
they have stolen from him* In a few years, 
Franz, he wi.II b^ great again, and you and I — ■ — " 



'Great again?" said Mr. Miller, dully; 
" great I That is war 1 " 

She babbled more news, but he did not hear it. 
All that he realized was war and what it meant, 
the wrecked lives, the maimed bodies, the 
sufferings, and a coming again of that hideous 
nightmare- -war 1 

He did not speak through dinner* He sat 
hunched up in his chair while she talked in low, 
fierce tones, and the hands of the clock went 
round. Why, it was a crime ! It was a sin, 
the most damnable sin that had ever been com- 
mitted, and he was a participant in the villainy f 

There would be more war, .more dead, more 
poor maimed, blind souls groping and groaning 
through the world ! 

He leapt up with a strangled cry and stumbled 
across the table to the telephone, His wife 
stared at him, 

Ji What are you doing ? ** 

He did not reply to her ; his trembling hanefs 
turned the pages of the Telephone Directory, and 
presently he called for a number. 

" What are you doing ? " she asked again, 

" Is that Scotland Yard ? " he asked. " It is 
Mr. Miller speaking, al Sloaiie Miller. Limited. 

Yes, I am| N^BfMT^ 1 5^^l5tfr^ N J have got a 
man here you want. 



She leapt up at him like a tigress and knocked 
the telephone from his hand. 

"Yousha'n't, you sha'n't!" she screamed. "You 
traitor ! You traitor I I'm going to warn him ! " 

She took two steps, but he was after her, had 
swung her round and had thrown her sprawling- 
on to the couch. 

" Yoi: stay here," he said, breathlessly. 
" You stay with me here. Don't you move I " 

" I'll scream 1 " she whimpered. " You 
traitor 1 Your name will be execrated . . ." 
She raved on, but he stood between her and the 
door to the hall. 

He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. 
It showed ten minutes to eleven. Then there 
came to his strained ears the " Chuff I Chuff ! " 
of two motor bicycles. 

His wife was as white as death. She sat 
glaring at him till he almost collapsed under the 
strain of her fanatical hate. Then the door 
opened, and it was Floyd who came in. 

Mr. Miller tried to speak but could not. He 
raised his hand to his trembling lips to steady 

" There's a man you want," he said, and got 
no farther, for at that moment the second door 
to-the room opened and the stranger came in. 

He was carrying his bag, his cloak was on his 
shoulders, and at the sight of Floyd he stood 
stock still. 

" I want you, ' Snakie,' " said Floyd, and his 
automatic pistol covered the other. 

" Well well, well," said the Kaiser, " if it isn't 
Floyd ! " 

Both his hands were in the air now as he walked 
calmly toward them. He gazed benevolently 
from the shaking Mr. Miller to his speechless wife. 

41 And which of you unpatriotic devils put 
your Kaiser away ? " he asked, in elegant 

Mr. Floyd saw a bulge in the stranger's pocket, 
and unceremoniously put in his hand and drew 
forth that which restored Mrs. Miller to speech. 
It was a large handful of priceless emeralds. 

" You nearly got away with it, too," said 
Floyd, admiringly. " Well, you are certain! v the 
boy ! " 

The Kaiser smiled pleasantly. 

" Have you got a friend outside ? " he asked. 

Floyd nodded. 

"I'm sorry," said the man. " Do you mind 
if I take my moustache off ? — it tickles. I am 
afraid you owe me an apology, Mr. Miller,' 1 he 
said ; " that you should imagine the b. ill -necked 
tough I sent to you was me hurts my pride." 

There was a sound of motor wheels. 

" Stocky Jones and Tells, I suppose ? " 
suggested Mr. Floyd, with an inquiring jerk of 
his head to the sound ; " they've been working 
with you. That car will come in handy," he 
added. " Pick up your bag, ' Snakie,' you don't 
suppose I'm going to valet you, do you ? " 

They went out together, leaving a very silent 

It was Mr. Miller who spoke first. 

" Bertha," he said, clearing his voice, " you 
didn't kiss his hand before he went 1 " 

He felt he was entitled to that one. 


With Acrostic Xo. 67, printed below, our twelfth 
series of six icj begins. Prizes to the value of 
twelve guinea! will be awarded to the successful 


Here, in London's famous street, 
Wealth, and fashion we can meet. 
Piccadilly, at the end. 
Shows the curve we m\v ascend ; 
Oxford Circus, further on. 
Shows the journey nearly don3, 

1. Fours, and threes, and two), and one*, 
So the batsman scorej his . 

2. Bread, or fruit, or fish, or meat, 
What is food is good to . 

3. Harness, tackle, dress appear 
More or leas the same ai . 

4. Though no view it can espy, 
Every needle has an . 

5. Here is something someone wrote, 
Letter, or perhaps a . 


6. Closely fitting, that is right : 
What tJ never loose is . 


Ow either side the name we note 
Of tragedy that Shakespeare wrote. 

1. Man, go : and with you take your fruit. 

2. Grave, circumflex, or else acute. 

3. Money : or, lacking head, a tree. 

4. Beautiful should the lady be. 

5. A snaky fish, a little word. 

6. Possessed by fish, and beast, and bird. 

7. Lastly, appears upon the scene 

Hero — and also heroine. PAX. 

Answer a to Nos. 67 and 68 should be addressed to the 
Acrostic Editor, The Steak d Magazine, Southampton 
Street, Strattd, London, W.C.2, and mutt arrive nU later 
than by the first post on August Mth. 

The answer to each acrostic must be on a separate mWe 
of paper ; a second solution may be sent to any or every light, 
and should be written at the side of the first one ; at the 
foot of their anstocre solvers should write their pseudonyms 
and nothing else. These pseudonyms should in no cast 
exceed one word. 

Answer to Xo. 63, 


L o ng b o 






N ekka 



G o a t h e r 



F r a b j o u 



E r 



L ut 



L araco 






W entwort 


Notes.— Light 2. 
rows. 3. To bo so; 
Bootis. 4. Goatherd 

Otto the Great, cotton, otto of 
Bootes; Nekkar, the stsr Bet* 
*^**». ~r» „^-«.. v .^ win. dragon white* anagrams. 
6. Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass. 6. Cth«. 
wise, else. 7. Dise, Dia. Plato. 8. Dosn Swift, Stelli, 
Vanessa. 9. Parroqoet. wanting Parr: a toque may 
I eoome it* weansr. 10. Thomas Wentworth, Earl of 
Hi afford. Change ISf. to W.— Nausea went North. 


Who Has the Best Time 
—a Man or a \Voman ? 

Is the man, with his daily worries and his greater freedom, 
or the woman, with her comparative serenity of life and 
perhaps some monotony, the happier person? "Men/' 
said John Oliver Hobbes, "with more liberty than 
women, have many more opportunities of coming to 
disaster.' Much more is expected of them in the way 
of hard work. No domestic, no romantic affection, no 
pursuit, no vice, no amusement, no interest can compensate 
a man for being a failure — according to his luck— in the 
judgment of his fellows. Against the battles of men, 
what of the loneliness of many women, their secret 
discontents, cares, sorrows, and desires ? What of their 
social and domestic worries? Worries about marrying 
and not marrying, about husbands, children, servants, 
dressmakers, and nerves ? Women, however, have the 
better time, for they live and die in the belief that they 
bring all the joy and atone for all the woe of this sinful 

'Uhe above quotation was submitted by us to a number of eminent 

men and women, whose views on the question " Who has the best 

time — a man or a woman ? " make a most interesting symposium. 



T is not easy to an- 
swer in a sentence 
the question of my 
dear friend — John 
Oliver Hobbes, whose un- 
timely death was an irre- 
parable loss to me and 
many others — whether a 
man or a woman enjoys 
the better time in life. 
Some men are, of course, 
happier than women ; some 
women happier than men. 
But it is, I am afraid, 
the fact that, in the past, 
more of life's blessings 
a*wl less of its sufferings have fallen to 
^e lot of manhood than of womanhood. If 

freedom, knowledge, interest in public affairs, 
variety of occupation, the chance of getting on 
in the world, and the opportunity of self- 
gratification without paying the cost of it, are 
regarded as advantages, then men have been 
better off than women. Among uncivilized 
people women are generally the slaves of men ; 
nor have they as yet risen in all so-called 
civilized countries to an equality with men. It 
has even been doubted whether women pos- 
sessed minds or souls. But there is no more 
convincing a test of social progress than the 
respect paid to womanhood. I rejoice therefore 
in knowing that in Great Britain not only are 
women now highly educated, but that they are, 
or are coming to be, admitted to all the great 
professions, and that they are now invested 
with the political franchise. I believe they will 
exercise their power in behalf of great moral 
causes, such as temperance and purity. But it 
is impossible that they .nhould ever rival men in 
a battle of physical strength, or thai: they should 



ever be relieved (torn the sacred pains which 
they bear in virtue of their sex for the good and 
the very life of the world. The troubles and 
sorrows of men arc probably more frequent, 
but they are less acute or profound than those 
of women. 

Upon the whole, then, I conclude that men 
have, and must have, a better time than women, 
if by better time is meant a life of greater 
activity with less depth of suffering ■ but if it 
ia the service of humanity which constitutes a 
better time, then women are at least the equals 
of men. 



You ask me " who has the best time — a man 
or a woman ? " After a long and wide experience 
of both men and women I am satisfied that 
among men, zealous and self-sacrificing priests 
have the best time, and among women, that 
nuns, for instance, Sisters of Charity, and the 
Little Sisters of the Poor, have the best of time. 
Some of your readers will set me down as a 
raving lunatic or as a blithering idiot for venturing 
to make such a statement. As a matter of fact, 
it is quite indifferent to 
me what judgment they 
form upon my verdict in 
the matter. I can only 
r^ve you a straightfor- 
ward answer to a very 
definite question. Nun, 
I find, always and every- 
where, whether among 
the poor sick or the poor 
children, bright < cheery, 
en n tented, and happy. 
Not only do "they seem 
glad and joyous* but they 
are so. What is more, 
they feel assured of a 
still brighter and happier 
eternity before them. As 
lor my brother priests* I can only say that 
they are the best contented men and the 
cheeriest company I have yet discovered on 
this planet, 

I have been a Jesuit for more than fifty years, 
and if I were to start life again I should begin 
again in a Jesuit novitiate. 1 am no richer, 
personally, than when I began, I have no 
ambition but for God's glory and the good of my 
neighbour. When God rings me up to give an 
account of my stewardship I shall jest drop this 
vesture of clay, so to speak, my overalls, and 
answer the bell* My ambition is for a non-stop 
flight from earth to Heaven. If I have to stop 
en route, still, I aha] I get there. Every man and 
woman who believe they are going to live with 
God in Heaven must be happy* Some people 
may consider we are fools for this belief* but* 
having St. we cannot but have a good time with 
the prospect of a better eternity* 

The woman, unquestionably, She rarely has 
a man's responsibilities and she is not often given 
to worry. A woman is the essence of a good 
time. She was bom to 
enjoy herself, and wiU r!o 
so even when climbing 
upon a crowded omnibus. 
Most of them go through 
m life laughing. The income- 
tax collector sees them in 
a nightmare. The devil 
gives it up as a bad job 
■F'j and is learning to jazz. 

^I^^^^^L It is a beautiful thing to 
^ ^M V be the only woman m 
.^i^ ^F world and they all 

mQ&A W are that * Yet > wth true 

Mw JM feminine perversity, they 

fl ^^^ sometimes wish they were 

j^f^^ men. Perhaps not so 

r^ frequently in these piping 

times of Peace, War 
gave them liberty ; they have discovered them- 
selves. Even Mr, Justice Darling cannot intimi- 
date them. A poet once called them " lesser 
men M — but he* had never been driven by a 
Venus in a side -car from the Hotel TCecil to God 
knows where 1 


Unless a woman takes 
a deep and creative in- 
terest in her home, it 
would seem that in the 
very easiness of her life 
she has a harder time 
than any man* It must 
be hard indeed to kill 
time, for it has the life of 
a cat. It must be hard 
to find en joy men t p for 
the very search for it 
rouses it to the quality of 
elusiveness. Without that 
exchange of creative in- 
terest in her home it 
must be inestimably diffi* 
cult to always be re- 
ceiving and never to give. 
Ttj thttie who give in kind what a man gives 
in fact* life would appear to be an equal 
sharing of burdens, an equal realization ol 
interest and joy* 


There is something wrong with the way this 
question ho* be^n put- We should rather ask 


It must take an impassioned social optimist, 
which is as much as to say a victim of a rare 
kind ol lunacy, to assert that anyone has a 
really good time in Western civilization, Few 
of us even know what a good time is. We are 
all. men and women alike, boys and girls alike* 
the victims of an absurd, unstable civilization 
which reaHy only fits those who have grown old 
in it and have been ground down into semi- 
human shapes which are but parodies of what 
mankind should be. Youth is always struggling 
for life and that freedom for the instincts which 
is liberty* but who can attain it after suffering 
under the slave drivers known as school masters 
and mistresses p who are themselves distorted* 
atrophied, and ridiculous ? The English home 
itself is still the last refuge of decayed moral 
maxims, and the best that can be said for it is 
that it founded the British Empire by driving 
even- boy with a spark of spirit away from 

Some people tell us men ha% F e a good time p 
whatever happens to women. Those who look 
around may well wonder if this is so. . The pre- 
dominant expression in London or any other 
city of the West is anxiety* 
We see it on almost all 
men's faces. It cannot be 
denied that this is so. 
And the prevalent expres- 
sion of English women, il 
it is not anxiety, is discon- 
tent. Even those who lend 
the abnormal life of the 
rich are discontented be- 
cause, whether they know 
it or not, all their normal 
instincts of work have been 
paralyzed and atr opined. 
Most of them are little 
more than unhappy para- 
sites, while the mid die - 
claims have an equally aimless career. They 
have to go to the theatre in order to pretend 
that they live. They want to foe something and 
are nothing. They live beyond their means and 
the anxious do not live at all. The best time ? 
Who can weigh anxiety against anxiety and 
discontent against discontent ? 

No I It is impossible to answer such a 
question, and it will remain an impossibility until 
civilization at last reaches simplicity* By that 
time, when both sexes know what the true 
instincts of work and liberty can bring to them, 
they will not merely be making the best of a 
^fiTy bad job, nor will they imagine that anyone 
can have a good time: while others have a worse 
otie and their own rare moment? of happiness 
art marred by the suffering of others. 


men or what women have 
it ? There is no more 
ignoble aim in life for a 
man or a woman than to 
set out to " have a good 
time/' as the phrase is 
generally understood. The 
only good or M best time M 
worth having , the only 
desirable leisure, either for 
a man or a woman, is 
that which automatically 
comes as a by-product 
from the faithful perform- 
ance of work and duty. 
And this is altogether in- 
dependent of sex. In the 
fight for places in the 
national twopenny bus, I 
care not how many people 
get seats, or whether they 
It appears to me a very 
uncomfortable place for both sexes. But that 
is the affair of those who scramble to get 
into it. And looking at the road ahead, are 
there not some signs of a future smash ? 

are men or women. 

What do you mean by " the best time " ? 
Until we arc given a definition, how is it possible 
to say whether man or woman has it, or what 


The field presented by this question is too 
wide. If it be asked as a general proposition — 
a proposition embracing the Purdah woman and 
the savage — -the past and 
the present, the East and 
the West -then there can 
be but one answer and 
thsit is— MAN has the best 
time, and yet again MAX. 
For this one reason only, 
that he is ffte ; and since 
the dawn of civilization, 
as we know it, woman has 
been controlled. If Free- 
dom be the inestimable 
boon which the modern 
mind considers it, then we 
must hold that the lack of 
freedom is the cne thing which poisons all, 

" The woman is the glory of the man," said 
Paul, " He for God only, she for God in him/' 
said Milton, Let women be than kf id that no 
such words are ascribed to Christ* " Then came 
His disciples, and marvelled that He talked with 
a woman/* " If the case of a man be thus with 
his wife, then it is not good to marry/' argued 
these same disciples. Paul — great mind, but 
Oriental, and of his own day — thought it a 
perfectly natural thing that a girl's future 
should be entirely decided by her father's will. 
If that father chose to deny to his daughter the 
fulfilment of her womanhood, then there was no 
more to be said. Bl: .1 in the beginning it was 
not so. Aftflj W Pfie;w>*iWlJW| ^oUfrw.Gforist , in the 

end it shout 



man and woman are h or should ever become, 
what Christ meant them to be p then th- re can 
be no question of either sex having the better oi 
the other, because each will be fulfilling its own 
destiny, doing that for which they were created, 
the two halves of one whole, mated, as Tennyson 
has it. " like perfect music unto noble words .*' 

We have far to go before this be attained. As 
George Meredith said : " Man has but just 
rounded Seraglio Point. He has not yet doubled 
Cape Turk." Until he does, it is certain that 
woman, not being free, must suffer for her 
bondage, and the more as she acquires the spirit 
of a free creature. 


I think that men have 
the best time in the world 
They are the breadwinner*, 
they have careers to make, 
they have opportunity to 
give their gifts a chance, 
and they have the stimulus 
of ambition — a tonic to 
existence, Now-a-day 
women are demanding all 
the liberty and independ- 
ence of men, but if they 
get it they will have to lay 
airide many things that give 
the m pleasure now. They 
have their cares and sor- 
rows, they are handicapped 
by being women, bnt they cannot remedy their 
condition by trying to be men. Yet they should 
have their chance, and they arc getting it. But 
men have the better time. They have the joy 
of struggle and of competition, and they have 
the comforts of ho me -life which women give 
them, and, in most cases, the pleasure "of some- 
thing accomplished, something done." 


First, let rue say that the subject is more 
worthy of an essay than o£ a few short sentences. 
I am no believer in sex rivalry, and sane, healthy- 
minded men and women 
are equally content with 
their lot in life as designed 
by the Creator, Human 
brings,, male and femile, 
are, in like measure, equip- 
ped for the enjoyment of 
that very indefinabe 
quantity H the best time." 
When I hear of women 
envying the privileges rf 
men I am bound to con- 
clude that the cause of 
dissatisfaction may be sought and found in the 
women themselves- The joys of womanhood 

are just as numerous as those allotted to the 
male. It is only the un philosophical who would 
draw a sharp distinction between the primrose 
path of manhood and the supposedly thorny 
way of womanhood. Much of the dissatisfaction 
expressed by women is due to personal bitter 
experiences — which, after all, are common to 
both sexes — and to the stupid Teutonic ideas 
put forth by men like Schopenhauer- Briefly, 
I am inclined to decide in one familiar phrase, 
" honours even.'* 


Perhaps because the unattainable always 
dazzles, from my point of view the man, has a 
far better time in life than " sovran woman/' 
however highly her praises 
be sung. T can prove my 
point by asking : " Have 
you ever met a man who 
wanted to be a woman ? M 
I feel sure your answer will 
be (i No." Then, again, I 
would ask : " Have you not 
met dozens of women who 
would give anything to be 
men ? " 

That is why they so 
frequently imitate him, and 
compete with him. Man 
gets the pull all along the line. He proposes, 
he rules, he has no pangs about his complexion 
or figure when growing old — he can be blatantly 
bald-headed without a shiver ; he can be a bachelor 
to the end of his days without creating pity — he 
is the Master and Lord of Creation, and this 
reminds me of that old joke : " Woman was 
created after man, and she has been after him 
ever since I *' 


It is a little bit startling to be asked such a 
qiiestion without warning. It has had the same 
effect on my mentality as being suddenly called 
upon for the cube root 
of seven millions, I really 
have not thought about 
it Unfortunately, my 
opinion cannot carry much 
weight, as practically all 
/ %J| £-* niy knowledge of the fair 

^X sex has been gleaned from 
books. Truth to tell. I 
am just a little bit afraid 
of the gentler sex in 
general . and of one of 
them in particular. If I 
thought my wife would 
not see this article I 
would telUyoa whom that one is- 

But, seriously, without being able to say who 
1^3^|^h|4|^ |1 ^^^je^YlJili^e-fvfrN&^4 Ife?*. |i#i.a.rL— — l>eixxg only a 



-man — can tell) I bold the opinion that women 
have a better time now than ever they had. 
And so they should — bless their little hearts ! 
They are responsible for much of the beauty of 
this all-too-ugly world. The War has made all 
the difference. Women have done things which 
mere man in his conceit thought only himself 
capable of accomplishing. They have earned 
most of the rights of men while retaining the 
advantages which chivalry has always yivin 
them. By the work she has done, by the 
sorrows she has borne, woman has earned a 
good time for ever. 

And remembering the only occasion that I 
revelled in the embraces of a comely member of 
the sex, I say " More power to her elbow.'* 



What is meant 
" best time " ? 

My mother, when she 
saw me come in wet 
th rough after a hard 
day's shooting, would 
say : "I would sooner 
be a dog than a man/' 
But she belonged to the 
sheltered - Jives epoch* 
Even to-day, I take it, 
the essentially male man 
and the essentially female 
woman, each healthy, and 
each normally equipped 
mentally, would differ 
profoundly npon what 
constitutes a "best 
time." Few men. for ex- 
ample, really understand 
what the joys of motherhood are. Immeasur* 
able, almost, otherwise women would hardly 
accept the inevitable pains. The question 
submitted has perhaps a more vital interest for 
the many of either sex who are indisputably 
half masculine and half fe rni nine, hermaphrodite 
in their tastes. They alone can strike some sort 
Qi balance between, let^js say, riding to hounds 
and bathing the bab>. 

Speaking personally— and I am asked for a 
personal opinion — I believe that men have the 
best time, simply because they are the stronger. 

physically, and can pursue their objectives 
(whatever these may happen to bel more 
strenuously and for a longer tim&. How many 
women on the shady side of fifty can enjoy a 
hard set at tennis ? Of course, there are — and 
must be — many exceptions to all general rulings* 
A very great singer, like Dame Melba, or a 
reigning beauty, any woman preeminently 
triumphant, stands on peaks exalted high above 
ordinary mortals and above our present con- 

However, one would shrink from giving any 
opinion if the expression " best time " were to 
be taken in its highest significance, I have seen 
happiness indelibly inscribed upon the faces of 
men and women who, most assuredly, have 
never enjoyed what is termed a " beano/' If 
" best time " means satisfaction, Ruskin has 
defined it admirably as "the art and joy o£ 
humble life, of all arts and sciences being the 
one most needing study. Humble life — that is 
to say, proposing to itself no future exaltation, 
but only a sweet continuance ; not excluding 
the idea of foresight, but wholly of foresorrow, 
and taking no troublous thought for coming 
days ; so, also, not excluding the idea of provi- 
dence, or pro vision, but wholly of accumulation 
— the life of domestic affection and domestic 
peace, full of sensitiveness to all elements of 
costless and kind pleasure. . . , ," 

Such satisfaction in life, such a " best time," 
is. possibly, more likely to be gripped and 
cherished by women rather than men* Minis- 
tration underlies it, the joy of giving, poles apart 
from the joy of taking. Of all joys this alone 
gives the lie to the sad 
affirmation, " tout pass*, 
tout lasse, tout casse." 


Women. — We have to 

Women.— They are 
always beinp taken out — 
we are taken in. 

Women should have the 
best time, bless 'em. Are 
there any who wish to be 
cheered op ? (All com- 
munications to be marked 
" Persona: 9 ) 

PhQt&traphs of Htnty Arthur Jenes t Dame NeLU Mel6a n Herat* Annuity VochtU, Mr\ Bailiie Rtymtldt t 
IVimfrtd Craham t Sir Gilbert Fnrker t *n*i Nerley Roberts, fy FJtteit i&* Fry ; The Vtry Rfv. /. A. 
J*W/Vfow + fy .ff. tfainti ; George Rt>te}\ Bj I Ian a; /;* Temple TAvnton, by /. Russttt &* Stmts Alfred 
L*sfer t ty C. 1 1 art h : Father Btrnzni Vau^hnn^ by Dinkam, Tvnsuar : Mmx Ftmbtrt&n* by Sxvoimt. 

by Google 

Original from 



BIT of 

cleverness is 

all very fine ; 

but when a 

man's too 

clever he had 

near as well 

be a fool. 
It wasn't foolishness ailed 
Big Billy of the Hills ; 'twas 
his cleverness that was some- 
times too much for him, as 
you're goin' to hear. 

The evenin' of Bally gul lion 
races four of us was comin* 
home together, myself, Tam- 
mas McGorrian, ould John 
Christy, an' Big Billy ; an' as ye may guess, the 
whole crack was about horseracin' an' bettin'. 
But we always come back to Major Donaldson 
an' the Hunter's Plate. 

The Major had picked up an' ould skeleton 
of a mare one Ballygullion fair-day, an' afther 
feedin' her up, an' givin' her a sayson's huntin', 
here doesn't he come out with her for the Plate. 
The whole counthry laughed at him from the 
time he entered her till she come in five lengths 
ahead of everything else, at ten to one ; an* 
sorrow a man, woman, or child had a shillin' on 
her but the two or three of his friends that didn't 
think him astray in the head for puttin' her in. 

We were all a bit gunked about it, an' all 
the way home one would still say to the other 
he wished he had risked a crown or so, anyway. 
" It's all fine talkin\" sez Tammas- McGorrian, 
" but who'd ha' thought that ould scarecrow 
could ha' won a race, barrin' 'twas again a 
donkey. A crown was about the price of the 
baste, let alone puttin' a crown of a bet on her." 
" I don't know about that," sez ould John. 
" 'Twas the huntin' done it," sez he. " There's 
nothin' as good for a horse as a sayson's huntin'. 
My brother-in-law — the horse-dealing one, I 
mean — -has made no end of money buyin' 
likely-loo kin' young ones, an' huntin' them a 
month or two. I've often thought of thryin' 
it myself wi' that black colt of mine." 

" What," sez Tammas McGorrian, " the 
long-tailed one ? " 

" Yes," sez ould John 




What are ye sniggerin' at ? " 

the long-tailed one. 

"Oh, nothin'," sez Tammas; 
" if ye had a crane or some - 
thin' like that to lift him over 
the ditches he couldn't thramp 
down, he might do rightly.' 

An' troth he wasn't far 
wrong ; for if ever there was 
an ignorant - loo kin' cartin* 
horse 'twas the same black 
colt. Every leg of him was 
as thick as the post of a gate, 
an' he had as much hair on 
each foot as would ha' stuffed 
a saddle. His mother had 
never been anythin' but a 
plough-horse all her days, an' 
if his father wasn't a Clydes- 
dale he was a near friend to one, I'm thinkin'. 

" He's not as heavy as all that," sez ould 
John ; " an' if he can't lepp, couldn't he learn ? 
Wouldn't he hunt rightly, Billy ? " sez he. 

" Oh, whatever ye say yourself," sez Billy. 
" But in my opinion the first hunt he's at he'll 
be inside the dogs." 

"I believe ye, Billy," sez Tammas, chucklin'. 
" If it was that wee hack of mine now that runs in 
the milk-cart. He'd ha' made a rattlin' hunter." 
" He might," sez Billy, " about the time of 
the Flood. Sure he's as ould as Methusalem's 
goat. Runs in the milk-cart," sez he. " He 
hasn't broke intil a trot since that time about 
five years ago that ye give him the feed of corn." 
" Niver mind when I give him a feed of 
corn," sez Tammas, gettin' a bit hot. "He 
may be a thri fie ould, but there's blood in him. 
He could travel yet." 

" Tut," sez Billy, seein' he had Tammas a 
bit riled. " The baste's been dead this two or 
three years, an' doesn't know it." 

" Oh, of course you're a funny man, Billy/' 
sez Tammas, gettin' angrier when he heard 
us laughin', "we all know that. But if he 
couldn't bate that porpoise of John's he de- 
serves to be dead." 

" Ye should have a match," sez Billy, winkin' 
at me. " 'Twould be a day's outin's for the 
people, pushin' the two of them along." 

" Oh, laugh away," sez Tammas. " But I'm 
not af eared.. I tell >e what I'll do. I'll match 
him again John's horse over a mile of counthry 

for ten pound, if John puts up the same 

Copyright, 1919, by Leslie A. Montgomery. 



"Now we're talkin'," sez Billy. "Come, 
John, make a match of it. Misther McGorrian's 
1 Robin Redbreast ' again Misther Christy's 
—what do ye call him, John ? " 

" Oh, sure he has no name," sez Tammas. 
" The crather's a sort of a foundlin'. Betther 
call him ' The Undhertaker,' " sez he, " for 
devil at all he's fit for but puliin' a hearse." 

That settled John. 

" Is he not ? " sez he, as mad as ye like. 
" Do ye see that ? " sez he, puliin' two five* 
pound notes out of his pocket. " Put your 
ten pound again that, an' I'll face ye over any 
mile in the county. Let Pat here hold the 

" Done ! " sez Tammas. " I haven't it on 
me at the minit, but I'll post it wi' Pat in the 

"Don't post it wi' me. boys," sez I. "I 
might want to make a bet on the match, an* 
I couldn't do that if I held the stakes. Betther 
wait till the mornin' an' get somebody else." 

" Wait a minit, boys," sez Billy, puliin' me 
aside. " Nail them now, ye fool," sez he, " or 
ye'U spoil the whole fun. The whisky 'U be dead 
in them by mornin' and there'll be no race." 

" Not at all," sez I. " Sure that racecourse 
whisky stays in your system for a fortnight. 
'Twould be just as well if they did back out, 
anyway. It's a foolish business altogether." 

" What odds if it is ? " sez Billy. " Sure 
it's not us is the fools. Leave it to me an' 
don't be spoilin' sport." 

" Pat an' me has been considherin'," sez he, 
to the two of them, " an' we were thinkin' 
Major Donaldson would be a good man to hold 
the stakes. Besides, he's a knowledgable man 
about racin', an' would look afther the arrange- 
ments. He would maybe let ye run it over the 
home farm, too. What do ye think, boys ? " 

" I don't care who holds the stakes," sez 
ould John. " One man's as good as another 
to me. There's my ten pound ready, an' 
I'm ready, too, an' the horsc'U be ready when 
the time comes." 

" Well, then," sez Billy, " give the money 
to Pat here, an' he'll take it up to the Major 
to-night. Tammas can leave his up in the 
mornin'. Will ye be satisfied if the Major 
makes the arrangements'? " 

" I'm content," sez Tammas, "any time an' 
place for me. But maybe John here would 
like a while to take some of the beef off the 
colt an' teach him a bit o' leppin'. He'll make 
a sore hand of the Major's fences if he doesn't." 

" Never you mind about the Major's fences," 
sez ould John, very hot. " The horse is a 
betther horse nor yours, an' mebbe his masther 
is a betther man " 

" There now, boys," sez Billy, seein' the race 
was like to turn out a fight, " don't be quar- 
rellin' over what's only sport. Come on, 
Tammas, this is our road. Good night, boys." 

There was no makin' the Major believe at the 
first it was anythin' but a joke ; for he knowed 
both "Robin Redbreast" an' the colt But 
when he was satisfied that both sides meant 
business, he took fire at once, an' in a minit had 
VoL lviiL—8. 

down the map of the home farm, plannin' out a 
mile where there was as easy ditches as he 
could get. Before I left that night he had it 
all cut an' dry, the course planned, the judge 
picked, an' the date fixed for that day four 

Divil the man in the whole neighbourhood 
but had his bit of money on the match. 
It wasn't on account of people belie vin' one 
horse or the other was the best that there was 
so much bettin'. It was just that nobody 
thought both horses would finish, an' there was 
a differs of opinion, about which would be the 
one to do it. Them that was well-up in horses 
give out that the " Redbreast " was bound to 
stick in the ploughed field, by reason of his stiff 
joints ; an' although everybody allowed that the 
" Undhertaker " (for the name stuck to him) 
would break his wind for sure if he had to gallop 
the whole way, there was always the hope that 
he'd have time to walk the rest of the course 
while the " Redbreast " was gettin' out of the 
ploughed ground. So the " Undhertaker " was 
made favourite, an' in a day or two stood at 
three to one on. 

But afther about ten days the " Undhertaker " 
begin to go back in the bettin', an' before long 
he was just at even money, an' sometimes two 
to one again him. He looked worth backin' at 
that, but just as I had made up my mind I 
would risk a pound on him, I heard that Big 
Billy was thrainin' the " Redbreast," an' had 
invented a bran-mash that was makin' a new 
horse of him, so I put my money back in the 

Not that I believed in the mash ; but I 
knowed that when Billy was in the business there 
was some divilment on foot, an' I thought I'd 
see a bit into things before I parted with my 

So off I goes the next afternoon to Tammas 
McGorrian's, an' the first man I met in the yard 
was Billy himself. 

" What's this about a mash ye've made for 
the ' Redbreast,' Billy ? " sez I. 

" I'm sorry, Misther Murphy," sez Billy, very 
stiff, " but I can't give you any information. 
The horse is in my hands, an' of course my lips 
is closed. An' I'm afraid I'll have to ask you 
to retire from the neighbourhood of the stable. 
No outsiders is admitted." 

" Come now, Billy," sez I, "don't be goin' 
back on an ould friend. If ye have a bit of 
information, you'll not put it past me. Ye owe 
me a day in harvest, ye know that rightly." 

An' so he did, an' two pound, too, he borrowed 
off me to pay the lawyer for gettin' him off at 
the quarther sessions, the month before, on a 
charge of makin' poteen. 

" Pat," sez he, dhroppin' his grand airs all of 
a sudden, M can ye hold your tongue ? " 

" I've bad teeth," sez I, " but I'll try." 

" Well, come on an' see the ' Redbreast * 
trainin', an' wait for me aftherwards an' I'll 
walk home with ye. It'll be worth your while." 

Away we goes up to the stable, an' there we 
finds Tamn? as McGorrian 9>n' Davie McGra, the 



*' It's only Pat Murphy, Tamrnas/' sez Billy, 
,J Are ye ready, boys ? M 

" Right," sez Tammaa. 

So Tammas looses the " Redbreast/' an 
him out of the stall. 

The minit I seen him I was sorry I hadn't 
put my money on the colt. Ye niver sc< n 
such a dyin'-lookin* object in your life. He 
hadn't been much to l<^ok at, the last ten 
years or so, but he was worse gone to 1 .he 
bad than ever. His coat was as 
dhry as a whistle, an' his eyes all 
boiled -loo kin 1 an J bloodshot ; an, 
there wasn't as much hair on his tail 
as would ha* made a bow for a fiddle. 

" He seems a bit out of condition, 
gintlemen/' se* J* 

" He's a bit over-trained/' sez 
Billy ; 4f but wait till ye see him 
when I give him the mash. Pull 
him out of the stable, Davie, while 
I'm mixin' it/* 

But 'twas easier said than done. 
They got him the 
length of the door 
of the stable, an* sor- 
row a foot farther 
would he go. First 
Tammas give him a 
shove himself, an 1 
then T got behind 
him too, but there he 
stuck, an* more he 
wouldn't do* 

" Wait till I get the 
reins/' sez the horse- 
breaker, goin* out 
through the door* 
11 Do you shove an J 
I'll pull. Now then, 
all together." 

Davie braces him- 
self up for a pull, an ? 
Tammas an" I gives a 
heave, an' I believe 
we'd ha' shifted him 
if the bridle hadn't 
pulled over the 
haste's head. As it 
was, Davie went out 

Liuil the middle of the yard on his back, an' the 
horse give ground a step or two. 

" Keep back, Pat ! " shouts Tammas, " He's 
goin' to lie down I * J 

" Hold on, boys/ 1 sez Billy. 4 * I'll give him 
the mash before he goes out/ 1 

" Let me on his hack/' sez Davie, comin' in 
all mud an J dirt, an' as mad as a hatter, " Put 
the bridle on him, an* I'll have him out if I 
should kill him!" An' Davie intil the saddle 
an J up wi' his whip. 

" Easy, Davie + easy I ** sez Tammas : " the 
horse is mine. Give him the mash, Billy/' 

So Billy comes forward with a bucket in his 

" I must ask ye to keep back, boys/' sex he* 
" The ingredients of the mash is known only 
10 myself, an* I don't want to run the chance of 





them bein* discovered 
before I patent it + Sit 
tight now. Davie, or 
he'll pull you over his 

Man, ye should ha' 
seen the oh Id horse 
goin' at that mash, 
push in' his head 
again the bucket, an* 
shakin' his tail like a 
suckin' calf at a can 
Before you'd wink he had the bucket 

of milk J 

" Wait a minit now, boys," sez Billy, "till 
it begins to work-" 

Jt didn't take long. Ye could ha 1 seen the 
baste comin' round. First he begin to lift his 
head, then he gives a prance or two ; an' then 
wi* a couple of flings an* a squeal he out through 
the door like a flash. The lintel of the door 
took Davie about the breast -bone, an' he turned 
clane round in the air, an* lit on hts face on the 
heap of rubbish that was swept up at the end of 
the last stall. 

There's no manner of doubt but that was 
what saved his life ; but it it did it finished out 
his suit oi clothes, ici the front was more than 

The divjl fly away wf you an your mashes, 



Billy Lenahan ! " sez he, fair spluttherin' wi' 
rage. " Ye've made a nice hand of me, you an' 
that cursed baste ! Look at my clothes," sez 
he — " a good ridin'-suit ruined entirely ! " 

" It's well you're purty long, Davie," sez 
Billy. " If ye'd been six inches shorter ye'd 
ha' been spittin' teeth, if your neck hadn't been 
broke. Here's a wee dhrop of poteen'll help 
ye. Ye'll be as right as a trivet once ye get in 
the saddle." 

" I'll never put me leg over the brute again," 
sez Davie. " Never if ye were to give me twenty 
pound ! " 

But when the poteen had warmed him a bit, 
he come round, an' afther we had caught the 
" Redbreast," we got him mounted an' out to 
the field behind the stable. 

An' troth 'twas wondherful to see the horse 
ye wouldn't ha' given tuppence for ten minits 
before, tearin' round the field an' over a couple 
of lepps Tammas had put up. I begin to think 
more of Billy's mash than I had at first. If 
the " Redbreast " could only keep his form up, 
the colt wasn't goin' to be in it. 

Afther a couple of turns round the field Billy 
stopped the horse an' brought him in. While 
I was standin' waitin' for him, Tammas comes 
up to me. 

" Don't be sayin' anythin' about the mash, 
Pat," sez he. " We want to keep it dark." 

" Does nobody else know about it, then ? " 
sez I. 

" Divil a soul but what ye seen the day — 
Davie, Billy, an' myself." 

" H'm ! " thinks I. " I could tell ye a different 
story. But sure it's none of my business." 

" Ye can depend on me, Tammas," sez I. 
" Good evenin' to ye. I'm goin' down the road 
wi' Billy." 

** Good evenin'," sez Tammas. " Mind ye 
don't squeal ! " 

"That's right," sez Billy, as we went down 
the road. " We want to get the bets on before 
it leaks out. It's three to one again the ' Red- 
breast ' now. You go an' put on what money 
ye can spare ; for the ' Redbreast ' at three to 
one again him is as good a thing as you're likely 
to come across in your day." 

" Three to one in your hat, Billy," sez I. 
*' Sure it's all out about the mash. Sorrow a 
three to one ye'll get again the ' Redbreast.' 
It'll bother ye to get evens. I heard they were 
lay in' two to one on him in Robinson's, the 
barber's, yesterday." 

Ye never seen a man worse sold than Billy. 

" It's that fool Davie has blabbed," says he, 
with an oath. " Burst him, his tongue is as 
long as himself ! He has ruined one of the best 
things I ever had on." 

" Maybe it was Tammas," sez I. 

" Maybe it was the divil ! " sez Billy, very 
mad. " Hould on a bit till I think." 

An' near all the way home Billy walked with 
his head down, never sayin' a word. 

All at once he straightens himself up an' 
chuckles till himself ; an' I knowed he'd hit on 

" Pat," sez he, " give me what money you're 

goin' to put on, an' I'll put it on for ye with 
mine. We may as well lump it." 

"I've been thinkin', too, Billy," sez I, "an* I've 
made up my mind not to bet at all. The whole 
thing is foolish. Neither of them'll finish." 

All the same, it wasn't that made me back 
out. Between you an' me, I misdoubted Billy, 
for I knowed by the look on his face he was up 
to some divilment or other. An' for another 
thing, he wouldn't let out to me, noways, what 
he was puttin' in the mash. All I could get 
from him. was that it was a Chinese drug had 
been give him by his uncle, the sea-captain. 
An' seein' the uncle was as big a rascal as himself, 
I was more on my guard than ever. 

" I'll tell ye what, Billy," sez I. " You owe 
me a couple of pound. Just put that on for 
me." (" For," thinks I to mcself, " the Lord 
only knows whether I'd ever see it, anyway.") 

I could see Billy was a bit gunked. But he 
couldn't well say anythin', so we parted on that 

At last the big day came ; an' I was as glad 
as anybody ; for all the time I'd been batin' me 
brains to think what Billy had put in the mash. 

But whatever it was, the people believed in 
it, anyway ; for they were layin' two to one on 
the " Redbreast " from ever the word of it got 
well spread. 

The mornin' of the race I went, up to the 
course early, for I'd settled to give Tammas a 
hand, while Billy would be away mixin' the 

Ye never seen such a crowd. Ballygullion 
races was nothin' till it. There hadn't been as 
many cars an' thraps in the Major's yard since 
his father's funeral. 

The course was black wi' people ; an* every 
now an' then somebody would lift a bush out 
of a fence or kick a stone or two off the top of a 
ditch for fear neither of the horses would finish. 

The " Undhertaker " was stabled at the top 
of the Major's yard, an' the " Redbreast "in a 
loose-box at the bottom av it — both of them with 
a crowd round them laughin' an' crackin' jokes 
till ye couldn't have heard your ears. 

However, the Major insisted on them all 
clearin' away to the course ; an' at last we got 
a kind of peace ; though there was still some 
of them wouldn't budge, but would still be 
hangin' round Billy to try if they could spot 
him makin' the mash. 

About a quart her of an hour before the 
time fixed, Billy sends a message for me to 
come to him. I found him in the potato-house, 
all by himself, with a bucket beside him. 

" Keep an eye on this, Pat," sez he, settin' it 
on a shelf above his head. " The Major has 
sent for me. Don't let anybody near it." An' 
away he goes like a shot. 

When he was well out of sight I reached for 
the bucket, for I was dyin' to find out what he 
had in it ; but just as I had my hand on it one 
of the under-gardeners comes up, hot-foot. 

" The Major wants you, too, Misther Murphy," 
sez he. " He's waitin' let ye wi' Billy Lenahan. 
Billy said ye might come if yo shut the door, 
whatever he meant by that." 



,# Are you sure the Major wants me ? " sez 
I, foT I misdoubted some roguery. 

w I'm just straight from him," sez he. " He 
said ye weren't to be long, for he wanted to get 
on the course/' 

I looked hard at the fellow ; but he was a 
stupid -It jo kin" era t her, an' I couldn't think he 
had it in him to ho up to any tricks. 

* H AH right." sez I ; an' I shuts the door an' 
away up to the house, 

I wasn't hall- way there when I meets Billy 
cumin' back at a run, an* when he seen me he 
lets a roar at rnc for every kind of a fool ye ever 
heard of. 

" Didn't I tell ye." sez he, pull in' me with 
him, "not to leave the bucket ? We're tricked ! *' 
sez he. "The Major wasn't there at all. It was 
all to get at the mash." 

" Tricked we are, Billy," sez I, " that ever I 
should be such a fool I The mash is gone by 
this time." 

An* when we got to the potato-house, right 
enough bucket an' mash was away. 

I've heard some purty tall talk in my day, 
but the language of Billy fair dazed my eyes* 

iJ They've give it to the " Undhertaker,' " sez 
he, when he drew his breath. * They've give 
it to the * Undhertaker/ an* me has ten pound 
on him — ten pound at two to one 1 '* 

" On the f Undhertaker/ Billy ?" sez I, M On 
the H Undhertaker J ? You're dot in*. Sure ye 

were backin* the ' Redbreast ' — your own 

" Was I ? " sez Billy, " What do ye take 
me ior ? I wouldn't lay odds on the best horee 
that ever stepped. Listen, ye ould dunder- 
headed gomeriL When they were bettm' three 
to one again the ' Redbreast ' I was goin* to 
back him right enough ; an' 1 In lieve what I 
was givin* him would ha* carried him through. 
But when it leaked out that 1 was givin' him 
somethin'. an' the bettin* went the Other way, 
it wasn't worth while backi r ' him at two to 
one on. So I laid my money on the ' Undher- 
taker.' an' put a double dose of my uncle's mix- 
ture in the ' Redbreast's * mash this mornin*. 
It's queer stuff, ye must know. A little does 
ye good, but too much fair bewilders ye. Divil 
a further he would ha' got than the first ditch 
with all that in him, an* t,he ' Undhertaker f 
would ha* won as he liked. Now," sez he, " the 
■ Undhertaker ' has got it* By this time he's 
clean mesmerized* an' no thin' can keep the 
1 Redbreast * out of the race if he can even walk. 
Where are ye goin' ? " sez Billy, as I moved off, 

" I'm goin' somewhere to laugh, Billy," sez f. 

" Ye needn't laugh so soon, Pat/' sez Billy, 
very nasty. " There's two pound of yours on 
the ' Undhertaker, ' too." 

" Let it go, Billy/* sez L " It's worth the 

money to me to What the divil's that ? " 

sez I h as there came a crash irom up the yard* 






" That's the - Undhertaker.' " sez Billy, 
** comin' out — likely through the wall ! " 

It was more than we could stand. Billy looks 
at me, an* me at him, an' then we sits down an' 
laughs till we were sore. 

In the middle of it up comes Tarn mas 

MM Hurry up wi' the mash, Billy," ses he. 
M An 1 you'll need to make it strong. They say 
the ' Undhertaker ' is terrible fresh, I'm goin* 
to give the ' Redbreast ' a rub-down till ye 
come." An' off goes Tammas. 

" Wait a miniC sez BiJly p leppin* to his feet 
when Tammas had gone, " It's 
not ail up yet. Away up the 
yard wi' ye. Pat, an' keep 
things goin' till I mix another 
mash, I have as much as '11 
make a double dose left yet, 
m give it to the * Redbreast/ 

First he'd take a run forward, an' up on his 
hind -end r pa win' in the air ; then he'd take a 
run sideways, an' near fall : an' then he'd lash 
out his two heels with a squeal an' make at 
John or wee Cox open-mouthed, whichever was 
nearest him. 

Quid John kept dancin' round him, first 
reachin' for the bridle, then threatenin 1 him wi" 
the spade, an' all the time cursin' an* prayin' in 
the same breath. Just as I come up the horse 
made a buck-lepp at him that would ha 1 been the 
end of him sure if he hadn't slipped in behind 
the cart I was standin' on. 


an J ye'll sec such a race as never was before, in 
Batlygullion or anywhere else. Away ye go now. 
Ye needn't be pryin J # This mixture is my own 
patent, an' I wouldn't give it away, even to a 

When I got to the top of the yard there was 
about ten or fifteen people there* all pushin* an 1 
scram blin' to get on the top av whatever they 
could reach. One was on a barrel, another on 
the horse-block; six or seven was thryin' to 
get intil the Major's phaeton all at the one time ; 
an' the rest was makin' for the roof of the coach- 
house with a ladder. 

Out in the middle of the yard was ould John 
Christy himself t with a spade, an' wee Johnny 
Cox. the blacksmith's son, that was to ride for 
him, with a pitchfork. The M Undhertaker " 
had possession of the rest of it. 

" What's the matther wi' the brute at all at 
all, John ? " sez I. H " Ye must ha' been giviu J 
him somcthin',* h 

I couldn't resist havin' a dig at him, for he'd 
been at the bottom of stealin' the mash, I was 

But ye should ha* seen the look he took at 
me I I believe he*d ha' hit me wi' the spade, 
only the horse stood on the reins that mi nit an' 
pulled himself up, an' John was that keen to 
get hold of him he hadn't time for me. 

Wee Cox ran in on the " Undhertaker " the 
same mi nit , as plucky as a lion, an' intil the 
saddle safe and sound. However he did it> he 
got the haste's head turned next the course, an r 
out of the yard he goes like a thunderbolt; takin* 
two bars of the Major's fancy Jfate with him. 

ThedJMWfi^i'^^lfiHfc^m his perch. 



one as kin' the other what was wrong wi" the 
horse ; but in the middle of the fuss there ccmes 
a cry that the " Redbreast " was out, an* we all 
down the yard to see him. 

The first look I got at him I seen the mash 
was workin' extra strong. 

When he got clear of the loose-box he looked 
round him in a tx wildcred kind if a way ; then 
he staggered a step or two an' fell slap through 
one of the Major's pheasant -boxes that was 
sitthY in the yard. 

The crowd raised a cheer an' ran to pick him 
up ; but poor Tarn mas could only stand there 
Loo kin' at him open-mouthed, with Davie Inside 
him near as stupid. As for Billy, he took one 
look, an' then slipped back intil the loose -box. 

By this time the people begin to see there 
must be some divilment afoot, an J ye might 
ha' heard the laughin 1 an' cheerin' a mile away. 
Anyway, it brought others up from the fields ; 
an* the end of it was they armed the poor on Id 
" Redbreast " down to the" course in the middle 
of that big a crowd that he couldn't get fallhV 
if he wanted to. 

When they got him down to the start in' -point, 
there was the J< Undhertaker " lyin' hobbled 
wi' a rope, an' about fifty men an' boys holdin' 
him down. 

The Major was bothered enough to know what 
was up wi' the " Undhertaker '* ; but when he 
seen the state of the M Redbreast " he was clean 
hewildhered altogether. Nothin' would do him 
but he'd find out what was up, but that was 
beyond him. 

Poor Tammas McGorrian nor 
Davie McGra didn't know, of 
course, an' John Christy an' his 
party, if they did guess any- 
thing, couldn't very well speak 
without givin' thcmseIv L s away. 

As for Billy, him an' me was 
lyin' undher a hedge about a 
hundhred yards 
off; for Billy 
misdoubted but 
there might soon 
he too many 
as kin* for Mm for 
it to be good for 
his health. 

At first the 
Major was for 
stoppin' the race 
altogether* How- 
ever, the crowd 
wouldn't stand 
that, The whole 
thins had been 
more or less of 
a joke from the 
first ; an' they 
weren't to be done 
out of their fun 
now that the joke 
was betther than 
ever. Besides, as 
far as the chances 
of the horses 


winnin' was concerned, it was still six of one 
an' half-a-dozen of the other* 

The end of it was, rome of th m he'd the 
" Undhertaker " down till the flag fell, an' others 
pushed the " Redbreast " off, an' away they 
went, wi' such a yell in' crowd afther them as ye 
never heard- 

If the " Undhertaker " could ha J run straight 
it was a soft thing for him, for he was at the 
first fence an' through it like a shot before the 
M Redbreast " had got up the second time. 
But once he was through the fence the di vil at 
all he would do but run rings round the next 
field, squeal in' an' kickin 1 up his heels ; an' in 
the meantime the " Redbreast " had got pushed 
through the hole he had made an* waa well on 
to the next ditch at what ye might call a steady 

/' The * Redbreast ' wins, Billy, M sez I. " Ye 
didn't put enough in his mash afther all." 

" I put in all I had," sez Billy. " He's got 
seasoned wi J the last two or three weeks. He 
could sup the stuff now like sweet milk. All 
the same he's too bamboozled yet to trot, let 
alone gallop, an' if they only get the colt headed 
for the winnin -post he'll do it stilL The people 
has the fences flattened down all the way." 

With that the " Undhertaker " gives a spang 
intil the air, an' off along the course like a streak. 
Before a mi nit he was over the hill an* out of 

"Didn't I tell ye?" sez Billy. "Come on, 
Pat I " An' away we goes for the winnin '-post, 

thin kin 1 'twould 
he ail over before 
we got there. 

But as we 
topped the * : 
we seen a crowd 
round the last 

"He's down, by 
heavens I " sez 
Billy. An' so he 
was ; right in the 
middle of the 
fence, with every 
man that had 
money on him 
tryin' to get him 
on his feet, 'Twas 
no use, though. 
Every time they 
got him up, dowTi 
he went in a heap 
again, with his 
eyes closed. 

" It's no good, 
boys," sez wee 
Cox. "He's 

"What's the 
matter with him, 
anyway ? " sez 
one. "Where's 
the vet ? " sez 

r of the L^Wk^^W^^qM^HIGAl+nother. 



12 3 

three or four at once, "here's Misther MacDer- 
mott, the schoolmaster ; he'll, maybe, know/* 

Up comes the mast her, as they generally 
called him. He had closed the school for the 
racc p an' by reason of it 1 5 be in* early in the day, 
was most exthraordinary sober. 

" What's wrong, boys ? " sez he* " What is 
it has happened ? " 

"The ' Undhertaker * has broke down/ 1 sez 
everybody at the same time, " Can ye do 
aiiythin' for him ? Quick ! masther, if ye can, 
for the ' Redbreast * *ll be here any minit/' 

Jf Stand hack an' let me look at him," sez the 

He takes a hard look at the horse, then pulls one 
of his eyes open an' bends down close to him* 

" What is it at all, masther ? '* sez John* 

if Nothin' much/* sez the masther, " Many a 


dacent man's been overtaken the same way, so 
it's small blame to a horse." 

* - Ah, masther dear/* sez John r " don't be 
foolin', but tell us at once. What is it now, if 
ye know ? " 

" Speakin*," sez the masther, cockin' his eye 
very wise, " speakin* out of a lifetime of experi- 
ence, I would say that the baste was dhrunk/' 

** What I" shouts wee Cox, "was it dhrunk 
ye said ? M 

" Dhrunk," sez the masther, ** full, blind, tight, 
inebriated — whatever name ye like to give it. 
an' a very nice and complete load of rihrink he 
feems to have got— poteen, too, by the smell. 
He p s sleepin 1 it off now," sez he, " an' if a horse 
takes it an yway like a human bein/, he'll wake 
up in about an hour's time with a headache 
would split a stable wall." 

" I'll be blest if the masther isn't right ! " 

sez -Pet her Cass id y t sniffin' at the baste, " I 
have it* too. John/' sez he. " By the Hokey, 
it was the mash that we stole — Billy's bran -mash. 
Him an' his Chinese drugs I We might ha'e 
knowed there was trickery about anythin* he 
had his nnger in, Would a mash with poteen 
in it make the horse dhrunk* masther ? " sez 

" I've never tried it on as large a scale myself, 
up to the present," sez the masther. "but I 
would say there was great possibilities in a bran 
an' poteen mash — mixed sthrong/' 

" Never mind what done it now," sez John 
Christy* all excited* " Can we not get him on 
his feet among us ? Aw, boys a boys, here's 
the ' Redbreast 1 comin' over the hill 1 Listen 
to the cheerin'. By heavens, he's broke intil a 
trot ! Pull this brute out of the fence intil the 

f ie Ids — we'll 

have to get him 

up, boys, one 

way or an 


" No, no, let 
him lie in the 
fence," sez wee 
Cox, |J an" the 
1 Hedbreast' *U 
never get over 

"No, fetch 
him out, an' 
give him a 
chance/ shouts 
two or three of 
his hackers. 

"That's right, 
fetch him out/* 
sez John, dan- 
tin' round half- 
mad with vex- 
ation, M Oh, 
boys dear, are 
we goin J to be 
beat an* him 
not a hundred 
yards from the 
post i The 
•Redbreast* '11 
be here in a mi nit. Take him by the legs/* sez 
he, "an* trail him that far/ 1 

" It's no good," sez wee Cox ; " he'd be dis- 
qualified. Could ye not put us up to some- 
thin', masther, for the love of goodness ? *' 

" IVc known decent men of my acquaintance," 
sez the masther, " greatly invigorated by putt in' 
their heads undher a pump. Ye might try a 
hatful of cold water on him/' 

" It's a good idea/' shouts John. " Run, some 
of ye, down to the drain. Run, now ; we 
haven't a minit. Here's the f Redbreast.' M 

It didn't look as if the water was goin* to 
do much good. The first splash of it the 
" Undhertaker " got he only turned over on 
his other side, an' kicked off Pether Cassidy's 
hat ; an' the 11 vM. the " Redbreast " was 





of them sayin* a word for fear their breath 
would blow him down. At the rate he was 
goin* he had about a hall an hour's journey 
before hinu 

" Come on, Plat," sez Billy, pullin* me up 
irom the ditch where we were lyin\ ** I can 
stand this no longer* There's twenty pounds 
waitin' for me if I can only get that ould cart- 
horse started. Masther dear/ 1 sez he, pullin 1 
the wee man out of the crowd, ** can ye not put 
ns on to some tip to start the * Undhertaker ' ? 
If ye do, I'll keep ye in poteen for a twelve- 

" Get him on his feet, Billy," sez the mast her, 
"an' put the two police there one on every 
side of him. They* re two very experienced 
men/' sez he. " The pair of them fetched me 
home frt>m Michael Cassidy's pub last quarter- 
day when I was overcome with a slight dizziness 
in my legs ; an' if they can do that, a horse 'II 
be only child's play to them." 

N Ah, now, masther," sez I, " quit your jokin'« 
I've two pound on the brute myself. If ye can 
do anything at all, do it, or we're too late.'* 

For the " Redbreast '* was near half-way by 
now. Wee Bandy Thetford, the whipper-in, 
that had been laid off by the Major to judge 
the race, an' had come back to see the fun, 
strolled off to the winnm^pust again, 

" The money's lost I " sez Billy, with a groan* 
11 Oh, masther, can ye do nothin' ? *' 

"There's only one chance, Billy/' sez the 
masther, takin' off 
his tall hat, 
" Fetch back the 
full of that of 
water, an* we'll 
try an internal 
application. It*s 
not a form of 
moisture I'm 
greatly addicted 
to myself/' sez 
the masther to me, 
as BiUy run off, 
" but there's a 
piece of poetry in 
the Filth Read- 
ing - Book speaks 
highly of it. Stand 
back, boys/ 1 sez 
he, push in 1 
through the 
crowd- " Do you 
lift his head, 
Billy, an* 1*11 

It was like a 
miracle* The first 
friup the M Un- 
dhertaker Ji took 
he gave a spang 
with his heels 
that cleared a 
twenty -foot ring 




round him, an' with the next he was on his 
feet pawin* like a lion* 

'* Up with you. Cox. up with you I Ji screeches 
his backers. an J up goes wee Cox like a lamp- 
lighter. He give the bridJe a shake, an' dug the 
ould horse with the spurs. For a mimt the 
" Undhertaker M stood stock-still hlinkin' round 
him, an* the crowd give a groan, thin kin" he'd 
fall again. By this time the " Redbreast " was 
thirty yards from the post. But with that the 
" Undhertaker " takes a prance an* a squeal , 
an* away like an arrow, wee Cox, that had lit 
back on his hind -quarters, hold in' on like grim 
death by the reins. 

It was a great finish. The worst of it is that 
to the last day we'll never know who won. 
Wee Bandy, the judge, not hearin* the " Undher- 
taker " comin*, with all the row was goin' on, 
steps aside into the middle of the course to Jet 
the " Redbreast " past ; an" the " Undhertaker " 
hit him about the two metal buttons in the small 
of his back. He went up three feet in the air 
before he fell, an' then lay groanin' on his face, 
an' when they took him to the Cottage Hospital 
he had concussion of the brain an' two fibs 
broke* When he came to, the divil a decision 
would he give, though some of the backers hung 
round the hospital all afternoon ; but sat up 
in bed an 1 cursed Billy Lenahaii till his tempera- 
ture riz three degrees. 

An' troth, if some of the crowd could have 
got their hands on Billy, the same curses 

would have come 
to roost mighty 
quick ! But before 
they had their 
wits gathered to 
look for him h* 
was two miles 
away in the hills, 
blastin' the " Un- 
dhertaker " some- 
thin' dreadful 
ovcx twenty 
pounds he had 
as good as in his 
hand, an* lost after 


From that day 
to this, if ye want 
a drop of Billy's 
mountain dew in- 
stead of the real 
duty-paid, ye just 
step in to some- 
body in the know 
an* ask him to 
mix ye a stiff 
bran -mash. 

The only draw- 
back, the wee 
masther says, is 
that they don't 
mix it for ye in 
a bucket. 






Original from 


<y David Devant 


A. FERfllER 

HE mo*^t interesting part of a 
conjurer's work is popularly 
supposed to be the concoction 
f*f " secrets. li The invention of 
new illusions and tricks is cer- 
tainly interesting work, but, 
after a life long experience of 
conjuring, I am inclined to 
think that the fascination of finding material 
for a performance is certainly equalled by that 
of studying the effect which the performance 
produces on the minds oi an audience. 

Every conjurer has to play on the minds of 
his audience, and the more intelligent the 
audience the easier is the conjurer's t:isk. It 
follows, therefore* that the conjurer's most 
difficult audience is one composed of yrung 
children. A conjurer is generally supposed to 
be beset with difficulties when lie is performing 
to children, because "the children are so sharp." 
but the real truth is that the conjurer is put on 
his mettle because the children are 
not sharp enough. In proof of the 
truth of that statement, I may say 
that the conjurer has precisely the 
same difficulties when he is perform* 
ing to a village audience. 
In both cases the minds 
of the audience are im- 
mature ; the majority of 
the spectators do not 
follow the conjurer's con- 
versation ; the conjurer 
then feels that bis grip 
on the minds of the 
audience is not secure, 
and^t-his troubles begin. 

But, you may argue, 
what about the conjuring 
of the music-hall illusion- 

ist who presents his miracles without saying a 
word and yet contrives to " play upon the minds 
of hi* audience " ? Well, with all respect to those 
illusionists who give what is known as a " silent 
show," I do not regard their work as the highest 
form of conjuring. I am convinced that the 
effect which the silent performer produces on 
the minds of his audience is not to be compared 
with that produced by a conjurer who performs 
in the old orthodox manner, doing his tricks 
slowly, so that no point shall be missed, and 
explaining every detail as he goes along. 

The "silent conjurer/' or illusionist, is rea ly 

an exhibitor of puzzles — and nothing more* Tie 

presents one puzzle after the other, vtry quickly 

— because he dare not be delibarale — And at 

the end of his performance the mines of the 

audience are inertly confused. The people have 

seen some very good puzzles on a lar^e scale , 

but not one person in every hundred in thd 

and: en e could describe any one of the illusionist's 

tricks, Theaudience are in the pos i t ion 

of a man who walks through a picture 

gallery quickly ; he certainly sees 

some pictures, but since he does not 

give any one of them time to make 

a deep impression on 

his mind he really sees 


Now think for a moment 

of the conjurer who speaks 

while he is performing. 

By speaking he is able 

to state each magical 

problem quite clearly, to 

set out the plot of his 

■ rtrick in such a way that 

"A conjurer is generally supposed to everyone can understand 

BE beset with Difficulties.! NftoEffStfi fiF ttl C rfl&^N the audience 

performing to children/* are shown that, to the 




conjurer, the impossible is apparently possible, 
but— let us hope I — they do not see how the 
conjurer solves his magical problems. Having 
had every opportunity of following all the details 
of each trick the audience are duly impressed by 
the effect. Everyone knows exactly what the 
conjurer has apparently done* and the audience 
will go away and tell each other all about it ; 
I have heard them hundreds of times- 
True, the audience's description of the per- 
formance will not be accurate, for very few 
persons can describe a trick properly after they 
have seen it only once ; there is always a 
tendency towards exaggeration. But 
the main effect of each trick will be 
impressed on the minds of the audience. 
Do you not agree with me that the 
work of the conjurer who gives his 
audience time to see each trick clearly 
is on a higher plane than that of the 
silent performer who presents illusion 
after illusion so rapidly that no one 
can say definitely afterwards what 
the performer is supposed to have 
done i 

In justice to the silent performers, 
however, I will admit that there are 
exceptions to my rule. A good expres- 
sion, or an impressive gesture, may 
take the place of the spoken word. 
My friend, the late Chung Ling Soo; 
for example, performed very deliber- 
ately, in the style of the Oriental 
magician, but he had studied the art 
of speaking by signs, and his facial 
expression was wonderful. Even with 
these advantages he was mo re success^ 
ful, to my mind, when he was perform- 
ing privately to his friends and 

permitting himself to speak than he was when 
he was performing to the public, great as his 
public success was. 

Sometimes a silent performer will put two or 
three 'speaking tricks" in the middle of his 
entertainment ; these tricks are always his best 
tricks because, by speaking, he produces a 
clear, lasting effect on the minds ol his audience. 

The conjurer's conversation is one of his most 
important weapons, for, unknown to the audience, 
it really serves two purposes. It enables the 
conjurer to put -the details of each trick clearly 
before the audience, and it also enables him to 
divert the attention of the audience at the 
critical moment of each trick. There is always 
at least one such moment in every trick, and 
when that moment has passed the conjurer 
knows that his trick is practically over, but the 
audience should not be aware that anything has 
happened. The effort of diverting the attention 
of the audience must be entirely concealed, 
The conjurer's conversation and actions must be 
apparently spontaneous, but, in reality, every 
word and every movement must be carefully 
considered and rehearsed. ■ The old saying, 
" the quickness of the hand deceives the eye/* 
in absurd, for in the first place you cannot move? 
your hand so quickly that the eye cannot follow 
the movement, amjj in the second place, if you 
move your hand quickly in a trick you are 
practically telling the audience that you are 
trying to prevent them from seeing what you 
are doing, and that is precisely the effect which 
the conjurer should not produce on the minds 
of his audience. It is quite possible, of course, 
that the conjurer may have to move his hand 
or, at any rate, his fingers very quickly, but in 
that case the movement must be hidden. 

Another important detail is the arrangement 
of the tricks. The -minds of the audience will 
be in a condition to appreciate a certain trick 
in the middle of the performance ; open the 

" i 




12 7 

performance with the same trick, and it will ^o 
for nothing ; the audience will not see the point 
of it. Hence the necessity of getting the audience 
into the right mood to appreciate one's best 
efforts ; it is the first thing the conjurer has to 
do when he walks on the stage. An experienced 
performer knows at once if his audience are in 
the right mood for him, and if they are not he 
wjlj spend the first ten minutes of his perform- 
ance in getting them into the right mood, for 
until he has done this, until he has created the 
right atmosphere for his performance, the con- 
Hirer will not succeed in getting the undivided 
attention of his audience, and without that he 
[ an not succeed, 

A small " turn H at a music-hall has no time 
for this preliminary work of creating the right 
atmosphere : the small "turn " is probably on 
the stage for only ten minutes, and therefore 
has to take his chance as to whether the 
audience like or dislike his performance. A 
popular conjurer, knowing that he has fifty 
minutes allowed for his performance can well 
afford to ^pend the first ten minutes in winning 
the people to him + Aft eT ward*, when the con- 
jurer knows that he has " got ,J the audience — 
and he knows this instinctively — he can do 
what he pleases with, them, He can sway the 
audience in the way he desires making them 
believe that things which are not happening are 
happening, and vitc-rersiL 

Although no two audiences are quite alike 
there are points of similarity between all of 
them. 1 think the ideal audience is one com- 
posed of adults who have not forgotten that they 
were once children, for are we not all big 
rhildren, more especiaJly when we are going to 
have an evening's entertainment ? 



k is not always the fault of the conjurer 
when he fails to ** get " his audience ; the 
audience may not be in a condition to appre- 
ciate what the conjurer has to show them 
The worst audience in the world for a conjurer 
is one whose wits have been muddled by 
alcohol ; it is quite hopeless to try to entertain 
such people with conjuring tricks, A bla&£ 
audience, composed of people who think it 
rather bad form to be interested in anything, is 
also somewhat difficult, but you seldom gtt an 
audience of that kind. 

By the way p the importance of getting the 
right atmosphere for a performance is well 
appreciated by .the spiritualists* who invariably 
be^in their seances with lowered lights and 
hymn -singing. It is not until the minds of the 
circle have been led to expect that something 
mysterious is to happen that something more 
or less mysterious does happen. 

It is interesting to notice the way in which 
an audience composed of people not of the 
highest mental calibre are affected — probably 
without being conscious of it —by the various 
suggestions made to them by the conjurer. A 
good colour scheme and a few bars of good 
mu^ic will appeal to such people, and will thus 
help to put them under the influence of the man 
on the stage. I have often amused myself by 
noticing the behaviour of people — nice, well- 
bred people— when they have been under the 
spell of & good conjuring trick. They will do 
things which they would not dream of doing 
in their own home* For ests.mple, in one of my 

* ricta + fl.imgEF5!i^P^H^W c H c ^ es ■■* 

nave tnem hanaea rouna to the audience* 1 



have seen quite nice people scrambling among 
themselves to get some of those cakes worth 
about twopence each 1 But although such people 
will readily give themselves up to the conjurer's 
influence, they will not do quite all he wants 
them to do ; they will not see a joke — as a rule 
— unless it is a joke 
in action. A spoken 
joke is often lost* 

lam convinced that 
lew people trouble to 
think how a conjurer 
does his tricks. They 
see the effects which 
the conjurer produces 
an d a re co ntent . Yo u 
may have a beauti- 
ful trick — from the 
conjurer'? point of 
v i e w — b u t without 
any telling effect, and 
therefore it goes for 
nothing with an ordin* 
ary audience. On 
the other hand, you 
may ha ve a trick which 
is not thoroughly 
first-class— to an ex- 
pert magician — but if 
the broad effect is tell- 
ing it will please an 

average audience* It is not always the best 
trick which gets the most applause. Ynu may 
have a superb trick which is so good that after 
you have done it you leave the audience limp 
with astonishment ; they are too surprised to 

I have often been asked which is my most 
Successful trick, but I have never been able to 
answer the question. Sometimes a trick which 
is received almost in silence at the first house 
at an evening performance will be received 
with a burst of applause at the second house, 
Applause in a music-hall is often started by one 
man, and, although I never know the man, I 
always think he must be one of those rare 
individuals — a naturally good critic I There 
are very few such critics. The average man is 
led by a name in the advertisements, or he is 
influenced by a well -arranged boom, or by the 
fact that the performer has appeared before the 
Royal Family, and therefore must be wonder- 
ful ■ It does not follow. 

I believe every conjurer is suspected of having 
confederates in the audience. If I borrow a 
watch when I am performing to a music-hall 
audience I know that I am always suspected of 
borrowing from a confederate, and only one 
man in the audience — -the owner of the watch — 
knows that I do not use confederates* 


always suspected of borrowing from a 

A trick which ends with a good surprise is 
always most acceptable, and it always goes for 
all it is worth at the first house on a Monday 
evening, Later on in the week the effect of 
that trick is not so good, for the simple reason 
that audiences have told their friends about the 

big surprise* It is 
very difficult nowa- 
days to get a trick 
with a thoroughly 
effective surprise. 
When a friend tells 
me that he is going, to 
see my periormance 
I invariably beg him 
not to tell me when 
he is going, for I 
know that he may 
unwittingly upset my 
audience for me* If 
you know that you 
have a friend i n 
the audience there 
is a great — an almost 
i tresis t i bl e — t enden cy 
to play to that 
friend and ignore the 
rest of the audience. 
You must play to 
the whole mass or you 
fail to get them* 
It is always a little disconcerting to find tb^t 
one is popularly supposed to be able to do fat 
more than one really does. Some little time 
ago I was travelling in a crowded carriage. 
Two girls got in and began talking in rather 
loud voices j so that the regular travellers could 
not read their papers in comfort. One man 
gave one of the girls a pa per , hoping to keep 
her quiet. She was most indignant, and, to my 
great surprise — for I did not know that she had 
recognized me — appealed to me to turn the 
gentleman into a white pigeon and make him fly 
out of the window. It was a most awkward 
moment for me, and the man on whom I was 
invited to experiment seemed rather annoyed 
about it, but he n^d not have been, foT I was 
not carrying any white pigeons about with me 
that morning. 

I often wonder if my audiences really think 
that my tricks are not tricks, that there is, in 
fact, something uncanny about them. I have 
heard of people who think this a and I know that 
spiritualists have often credited me with making 
use of unseen forces* The suggestion pleases 
me ; I am flattered. When people tell me that 
some of my tricks are something more than 
tricks I know that I have produced the right 
effect on their minds — the effect I invariably 
try to produce on th : minds of all my audiences. 


Original from 




iHE big car 
glided swiftly 
down the long 
descent and 
took the hairpin bend 
at the hill-foot over 
fast. There was a loud 
report, followed by an 
expiring hiss and the 

jolt-jolt-jolt as the rim of the offside rear wheel 
thumped the metalled surface of the road. 

" Oh ! " said Jill. " What's a good word to 

" Having already had recourse to both our 
spare wheels," replied Lord Louis, " I doubt if a 
single word would adequately define the situa- 

" I suppose I want tea more than ever I wanted 
it before." 

" Your chances of getting any are as small as 
your need is great." 

Jill pouted at him, then smiled. 

" Louis," she said, " if you are going to be 
sententious, I shall walk to Dublin, even if it's 
a hundred miles." 

The car slowed up under the lee of a wind- 
riven oak growing in a distraught fashion from 
the fissures of a moss-covered rock. 

" There should be a village hereabouts, m' 
lord," said the chauffeur, inclining his head 
towards a figure seated by the roadside on a 
heap of fallen slag. 

Lord Louis Lewis and his wife turned in the 
direction indicated. The figure was that of a 
boy, or might have been a man, for there was an 
air of loutish uncertainty about him. He sat 
with legs sprawled out like the sides of an equi- 
lateral triangle. The legs were covered by 
knickerbockers which once had been trousers, 
and had arrived at their present state by 
the simple expedient of tearing off ten inches 





from the lower ex- 
tremities. His shins 
were bare and his feet 
encased in wooden 
shoes filled with straw 
and what looked like 
thistles. His upper 
parts were covered by a 
shirt which, presumably 
in a moment of aberration, he had attempted to 
transform* into knickerbockers, for the sleeves 
were torn off at the elbow. For the rest he wore 
a soft hat of a Mercury design, and gave token 
of aesthetic tastes by threading a poppy-stem 
through one of its many perforations. 

" You are right," said Lord Louis, " for where 
there is an idiot there is inevitably a village to 
accommodate him." 

" I think he's rather nice," said Jill. 
" As a means towards obtaining some tea ? " 
" We might try." 

They alighted, and the chauffeur pointed to a 
wire nail firmly embedded through the tire. 

" It'll take best part of an hour, m'lord, to 
get the cover off and repair the tube. The 
solution they sold me is a bad drier." 

" Well, do your best," said Lord Louis. 
" Come, Jill, we will endeavour to find your 
dream cottage in the meanwhile." 

Her arm resting on his, they crossed and 
addressed the yokel. 

" Good afternoon," said Jill. 
For answer, the idiot gathered a handful of 
grass and thoughtfully wjped his nose upon it. 
" A Druidical rite, perhaps," murmured Lord 
Louis. " The Irish peasantry have a great 
character for preserving ancient traditions. 
Could you tell me, my simple fellow, if there is 
a cottage hereabouts where we could obtain some 


At this the loony rose and, crossing the road. 

Copyright, 1919, by Roland Periwee. 



Jtih fluttered from the windows, and pigs 
walked in and out of the open doois 
in the friendliest way imaginable* 

11 Was there ever such a primitive 
little place I Look at the people 
Aren't they just the simplest, 
duckiest folk you ever saw ? " 

engaged in a careful inspection 
of the big automobile. After a 
while he turned, opened his 
mouth as though to voice an 
important opinion, and said : — 

** I made no remark," said 
Lord Louis, and Ji.l had to turn 
away her head, being far too 
nice a little person to laugh at 

" S-s-s-s-hure 3- n d m e name is 

".Renowned in these parts for 
the extermination of reptiles." 

The idiot lurched , his head 
towards the car, 

" '& it broke up ? " 

" Let us rather say the tyre has become de- 
flated through the insinuating influences of a 
tenpenny nail/' 

" I ^ mis, you arc an idiot to fire off those long 
words at him/ 1 contributed Jill. " We want 
some tea/' 

fH When in Kome ! " came the plaintive 

In the meantime the gentle rustic had capered 
off down the road with many trips and beckon- 

*' He means us to follow/' said JilL " Come 

A turn in the road revealed a village snugly 
nestling under the shoulder of a hill. An ideal 
village it proved to be — ■simplicity run loose, 
Roses rioted on the cottage fronts, chickens 


The idiot had stopped before a tiny cottage 
and was pointing darkly at the entrance. It 
was a very humble abode, clotted with climbing 
fuchsias and roses* A narrow flower-bed ran 
alongside the wall, margined with escallop shells 
and all alight with polyanthus, In the window was 
a slant, bearing apples, oranges , and a cardboard 
box of cough tablets, and above this, a narrow 
shelf of glass bottles filled with transparent 
sweets with lovely old -world names* A few 
slate pencils and a hank of leather bootlaces 
completed the stock, but faintly within shone 
the polished handles o! an old elm dresser and 
bright specks of light from lustre candlesticks 
on the mam H piece. 

for this," ex- 




Lord Louis gave the idiot a five -shilling piece 
and his benediction and rapped at the door. 

Jf the house itself delighted them, their charm 
was not comparable to that aroused by the 
appearance of its owner. Of all sweet old ladies 
in the world, Jill vowed she was the sweetest. 
The gentle lines of her wrinkled features seemed 
to have been drawn by the kindliness of all the 

" Mrs. Q'Donnel/' he ventured, as the door 
opened. He had read the name written in 
simple characters, with the K's upside down, 
over the shop window. 

The little old lady dropped the tiniest curtsy. 

41 Tis be the r known as Mother I am," she said, 
with a rise and 1all cadence— a sound such as the 
pea makes when it rustles the shore on a blue* 
calm day — then added, with a sadder note : 
" Though shrnall enough, raison they have to 
name me so/' 

And Jill's quick intuition led her to see that 
Mother O'Donnel wore no ring upon the third 
finger of her left hand, 

"Our car has broken down/' said Lord Louis, 
" and a simple fellow told us perhaps you could 
give us some tea/' 

" If 'tis lay yt/Jl be afther wanting, enter and 
welcome, for the kettle has been singing visitors 
this half an hour past/' 

She stood aside for her guests to pass. 

"Oh, what a darling shop/' exclaimed Jill, 
fCfctatically. " Louis, look I Isn't it just the 
umptiest ! ,J 

Mother O'Donnel smiled at their obvious 

" Shmall but clane, m'dyurr P " she said. M for 
'tis meself would niver slape av nights if dust c r 
tar-r-nish were to kape me company/' 

Jill turned and nodded undtrstandingly. 

" You must be happy here with this f c r 
your very own . ' ' 

At these words a flicker of sadness passed 
'iver the old features, 

4i I could be happier if it were more me 
f*wn r but Mother O'fionnel was niver une to 
airr her graivences to a stranger. Suits, 'tis 
uy ye '11 be saking and not a tale of rlint- 
heaiTted landlords nor mortgage overrdue/ 1 

She opened an inner door and led them into a 
tiny parlour-^so 
^mall that there 
was barely room 
to navigate the 
table which 
farmed its centre 
wf interest. In 
endeavouring to 
do so the pocket 
of Lord Louis' 
heavy motoring 
toat caught in 
the handle of a 
cupboard and 
pulled it a trifle 

"Wisha!" ex- 
claimed Mother 

O'Donnel, coming quickly to the rescue and 
closing the cupboard. " were there itfex four 
walls so close together ? There ! give me the coat 
and 1*11 set it in the shop out av harrm's way." 

So L*»rd Louis divested himself, while Mother 
O ' Don ne 1 dc pa rted to 
the kitchen to" sec to 
the kettle and crisp some 

Meanwhile Lord Louis 

( ■- 




was cruising slowly round the miniature apart- 
ment assessing its contents with an approving 

" A glorious surface Time and Mother O'Donnel 
have imparted to this old dresser. Plain elm, 
and yet it glows like lacquer 1 " He picked up a 
pewter pounce-box. " H'm, charming shape, 
beautifully kept, but alas, not anterior to the 
fire of London. Curious thing, the rustic 
adherence to grocers' calendars — spreads over- 
seas — Picardy is alive with them — and yet they 
go ^-somehow they go I " 

Jill did not interfere when the connoisseur side 
of his nature became uppermost. She had 
married a man who was wedded to the antique, 
but he had never allowed this trait to lead him 
to infidelity to the modern. Wherefore she, too, 
took a hand in the game, and contributed : — 

" Isn't that lustre lovely! " 

He shook 4iis head. 

" I don't like it. A chemical process. After 
all, a mirror is better flat." 

He stopped short before the mantelpiece, his 
right hand raised and rubbing the tip of his nose. 
Jill had learnt the meaning of that action and 
followed the direction of his gaze. His eyes 
were held, it seemed, by a small round teapot 
with a straight spout which stood upon a greenish 
plate of no pronounced colour. The teapot was 
decorated with a panel representing, in many 
bright tints, a group of Chinese figures variously 

" H'm," ejaculated Lord Louis, and again 
" H'm ! " He threw a quick glance over his 
shoulder, then turned again to the object of 

" Kien-lung ? " said Jill, who was very pains- 

Lord Louis removed the lid — examined it inside 
and out — replaced it — glanced at the greenish 
plate, nodded, then carried the teapot to the 
light, where he held it near the eye and at arm's 

" Kien-lung ?" repeated Jill. 

He turned and smiled at her over his shoulder. 

" What it is," he remarked, " to be the wife 
of a collector." And with that he set it down 
again upon the plate. 

-i Oh ! exciting," exclaimed Jill. " Louis, you 
must buy it for me whatever it costs." 

He shook his head, saying : — 

" I am heartily ashamed of you." 

" It's quite fair — the poor old thing's bound 
to be hard up — said she was." 

" And for that reason you propose to despoil 
her castle of its teapot and the little plate upon 
which it stands." 

" But if you pay her properly. 'Sides, I don't 
want the plate, silly." 

" Women are wonderful," he observed. 

And Jill countered. 

" You wouldn't have rubbed your nose if you 
hadn't meant to buy it." 

" Perhaps I was thinking." 

" Then stop thinking at once, 'cos I'm going 
to have it whether you want me to or not.," 

The door opened and Mother O'Donnel, 
bearing a tray, came into the room. She looked 

toward Lord Louis whose hand was still resting 
upon the teapot. A flicker of alarm furrowed 
her brow and, setting down the tray with an odd 
protective gesture, she placed herself between 
her guest and the mantelshelf. 

" Ah, now, forgive me, but it's frightened I 
am, lest an accident might befall it." 
Lord Louis inclined his head. 
" A treasured possession ? ° he ventured. 
Mother O'Donnel made no reply, but in her 
eyes there kindled the gentlest lustre, and she 

11 I, too," he said, " cherish deep regard for 
the inanimate." 

The old lady took the teapot and the little 
plate and set it upon the table, and while she 
measured out some tea from a Coronation caddy 
she said : — 

" It has been me only friend these forty-siven 

" Tea," observed Lord Louis, offering a scone 
to Jill, "is a great comforter, and not the least of 
the blessings which come to us from the East." 

But Jill had her own methods of approaching 
a subject, by paths no less circuitous than her 

11 You were speaking of the mortgage on this 
cottage," she remarked innocently. '* Won't 
you tell us more about it ? " 

" What more is there to tell, me dyurr. The 
mortgage is as old as me tinancy and past a 
doubt will survive it. For where would an old 
woman turn for twenty-five pounds with which 
to pay it off?" 

" You might sell something, you know," said 
Jill, throwing a glance of awful meaning at her 
husband, who preserved an irritating pre-occu- 
pation with a scone. 

Mother O'Donnel shook her head. 

" Ah, now, don't fret yourself with another's 

-« Yes, but—" 

" Is the tay to your liking ? " 

" Lovely — but — Mrs. O'Donnel, my husband 
is very interested in old things. I'm sure he'd 
buy something of yours as a souvenir of our 
visit. He said he would while you were boiling 
the kettle — didn't you, Louis ? " 

He smiled engagingly from one to the other. 
" Coveteousness is the curse of being a collector," 
he said. " If my wife were to perform her duty 
she would upbraid rather than encourage me." 

" He wants to buy the " a sudden flash of 

craft changed the order of the phrase — " that 
little green plate and perhaps the old teapot. 
He'd pay you — ten pounds — wouldn't you, 
Louis ? " 

" A good husband invariably agrees with his 
wife," came the rejoinder. 

" Wouldn't you like to sell them for that ? " 
queried Jill. 

But Mother O'Donnel had dropped her eyes 
and her old hand was plucking at the table-cloth 
in a queer aimless fashion. 

When she looked up they saw that her eyes 
were misted with tears. 

" Oh, please," cried Jill, " I hope we haven't 
offended you." hflGAN 







" No, no, 'twas kindly mint. Ye don't 
ondershtand, that's all E " She took a sharp 
staggering breath, then, '* Or mebbe it's jist a 
joke ye J re having. Tin pound for an old tay- 
pot and a bit of a plate to kape the heat from 
milking the polish/* 

" But it's a lovely teapot." 

" And we, too, have a polished table," added 
Lord Louis, which um- ;i -illy remark to make. 

" Like enough — like enough/' 

** Wouldn't it be worth while selling them for 
that ? " persisted Jill. 

* Ye don't ondersthand/ 1 was the only answer. 

J ill looked at Lord Louis, but his eyes were 
coldly fixed upon the ceiling. For the first time 
she understood how hard the collector spirit can 
make a man. Quite obviously he was freezing 
his subject, and for that reason alone she took up 
the reins and jumped the price. 

" Fifteen pounds/' she said. ** Fifteen." 

Jr Seventeen ten/' said Lord Louis, raising hia 
hand as though he were at an auction. 

And then they received the surprise of their 
Vol iviiL— o. 

lives, for the old woman struck the tabic a clean, 
smart blow. 

" Stoppit," she cried ; " phwat sort of people 
are ye to run a sale unasked in a poor woman's 
house and timpt her to the greatest a v sacrifices ? 
Would ye sell the hair of a dead child for a 
St h ranger's money ? Would ye bar t her a packet 
of love-letthers for ony sum of got* or siller r 
Nay, thin, let me be — let be E " 

** I am sorry/" said Jill, *' we didn't know." 

As quickly as it came the tempest departed 
and the old woman laid a hand on the sleeve of 
Jill's gown. 

" Nay, nay. I shouldna have spoken so — 
ye touched mc raw, that was it. Sure and av 
course ye wouldna be exshpected to onder- 
sthand. 'Twas kindly mint and the A'mighty 
knows the blissing the money would ha' proved, 
but there's things beyont money — there's 

" Then please forget our indiscretion/' said 

want of Blffi 



44 It's over and forgotten." 

" You teach us a lesson in civility, madam, 
but will you allow me before we put the matter 
finally aside to state that had your feelings been 
otherwise, I should have been prepared to 
increase my offer to the sum of twenty pounds." 

The old woman's eyes opened wide, and the 
corner of her mouth twitched. 

" Ye must be a rich man," she said. 

" I mention the fact not in any hope of 
weakening your resolve, but merely in the event 
of your reverting, in future conversation, to this 
episode that you may be able to quote to your 
listeners the good round figure you were great 
enough to refuse for these little examples of the 
Ceramic art. Thank you, I should enjoy another 
cup," he said, leaning back in his chair and 
stretching his legs. 

It is probable the matter would have ended at 
this point had not Jill been struck by the curious 
similarity in shape between the teapot and the 
first fruit mentioned in the Bible. 

" Standing on that plate," she said, " it looks 
just like a pippin on a green leaf. Doesn't it, 
Louis ? " 

" ' Where the apple reddens never pry,' " he 
quoted. " ' Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.' " 

They were hardly conscious that the old 
woman had begun to speak, her voice fell gently 
to their ears, like down-drifting leaves in autumn- 
time. . With hands resting upon the rough 
white cloth, and eyes which looked back across 
a valley of years, she spoke, and an infinite 
sadness trembled through the simple sentences 
of the tale she told. 

" And iverywhere ye heard it said that me 
fayther was a hard man. For many years he 
had followed the sea and the salt av it bitthered 
his spache long afther he abandoned the tiller 
for the handle of a plough. Me mither she 
uphild him, mebbe for raison of'the prosperity 
they shared togither. A nip o' frost me mither 
was likened to, and 'twas the same as an aist 
wind to have spache with me fayther. Sthrange, 
but I inherited the qualities of nayther, for 
.though wayward enough me heart had an im- 
pulse of warmth that the chill o' their company 
couldna dishpel. Th' was a loveless house, but 
! youth has a gladness of its own that nayther 
folk nor ad varsity can conquer. I would run 
from it all and lie in the deep grass meadows and 
dream and imagine. Ach, but ye know well 
enough the tilt of a young maid's thoughts when 
the birds sing love-songs in the neighbouring 
thickets and the sun is drenching her with its 
pure warm goodness. I wud fancy meself 
sought afther by kings and princes or that some 
sthrolling minstrel would break his music at 
sight o' me and fall to whispering instead." 

" Um— um ! " said Jill. 

" It was nayther prince nor king who found 
me so, but a simple hireling lad — a teamster 
from a farm two valleys distant. Six feet he 
shtood, a shtray black lock twishting from 
under his hat and falling athwart the brow 
av him. Wisha ! wisha I I can see him now, 
his feet square planted and the blue wide-open 
eyes looking down upon me as I lay. I had 

been ash I ape and taken anawares, put out a 
hand to draw the shkirt over me ankles for viry 
modeshty. * Be aisy,' he said, quick to read 
the shyness of the movement, * would ye cover 
a beauty that no dacint man could choose but 
reshpect ? ' 

" And being young we laughed at that and he 
sat beside me on the grass and we fell into talk. 

" That was the beginning av it; 'twas a secret 
friendship of the twilight and the moon." 

Jill nodded with sympathy, her eyes glistening. 

"Tell me," she said, "of the first time he 
kissed you." 

*' Jist seemed to happen," came the answer. 
" We were shtanding by a brook — there was a 
curl of water and shomwhere a bird rustled in 
the leaves near by — just seemed to happen." 

" Oh, lovely I And — and — did you marry 
him ? " 

" No." The voice struck a dead note — 
almost as though the story were at its end. 

" Oh, but please ! " exclaimed Jill, " you 
must have married him — you must have." 

" Me fayther came to know. It was that 
same night. A dog fox barked in the valley — 
an ill omen that ! We met me fayther where 
the woods turn to meadows. ' Very pretty/ 
sez he, and though the wind set gentle from the 
south we could feel the aist cut across our faces 
like a whip thong. * And phwat is my Sheila 
doing on the arm of a dung-cart driver ? * With 
that Mishael, for so he was named, loosed his 
hold upon me and shtepped a pace forward. 

* The divil sthrike the legs from under ye,' he 
cried with a fury av which I could never belave 
he was masther. And he repated it while me 
fayther leant upon his blackthorn and shmiled. 

* Pritty phrase/ he sez thin, with an eye cocked 
toward me. - Does he favour ye with love-talk 
on such iligant lines ? Be it so. Thin his 
absince will improve upon his company. Take 
the hedge-gap yander, Misther Muckcart, for 
I'd remind ye this meadow is mine and I've no 
taste for treshpassers.' ' Misther O' Donnel/ 
sez Mishael, as bould as brass, * I've had a repi- 
tation in m* time as a poacher, mebbe rightly, 
mebbe wrongly — but I'll tell ye this much : 
Whin I visit another man's presarves I have 
niver left 'em impty handed/ ' Being nayther 
praste nor justice/ returned me fayther, ' y' 
confessions are wasted upon me. Wish ye good 
night.' And he took me arm and shtarted 
homeward. But my Mishael had the courage 
av a rigiment and barred the path wi' arms 
folded across the breast av him. ' Shtand 
aside,' meniced me fayther with a grip upon his 
blackthorn. ' Phwhat sort of a tay party is ut 
whin a man cannot choose his own company ? ' 
' 'Tis like to be the sort ye'll have to saison 
yoursel' to/ came the answer, * for she and I ha' 
chosen ours a'ready, and nayther divil nor spirk 
will wrest her hand from the taypot I mane tip 
drink from/ ' And phwhere's the money to 
come from that will . fill ut ? 'Tis aisier to 
impty yer mouth av words than fill yer pockets 
wi' siller, me bhoy. Is ut five or four shilUns a 
wake O'MariL payji ye to fork his midden ? ' 
St. Fathrick ridded Ireland o:f shnakes, but faith 1 



he lift the vinom behind, and me fay t her 's tongue 
was soaked in ut* Mishael '& face wint dull 
crimson like the sun falling on a mishty evening. 
' Thrne 'tis me fortune's yet unmade, 1 he whis- 
pered, low and ominous, - but I've a clane heart 
and a sthrong arm, and Mother of Mary there's 
no dade I'd not perform to put a ring on Sheila's 
finger. 1 Ochone ! but he was a crafty man me 
fayihcr. and the words set a thought to work in 
the cold brain av him. * That's a bethef spirit/ 
set he ; * we'll walk to the farm and talk the 
question out." Not a word was shpoken on the 
way, but whin we en the red the kitchen he tould 
me mi t her the lean o' things, and she rounded on 
Mishael wi the fury av a wild cat whose kittens 
have been dishturbed. For a space me fayther 
let her rage* then crisply bade her hould her 
pace, ' 'lis none so bad as its seeming, ' he sez, 
4 for this pritty suitor declares he will conquer 
iny ad varsity to call our Sheila bride. Isn't 
that the truth, me bhoy ? ' and Mishael nodded. 
1 I would cross the world a hundred times if I 
might sit to tay wi Sheila at the end av ut/ 
" Why, thin, me bhoy, ye shall sit to tay with her 
at the beginning av ut and taste yer future 
swateness* Lay a cloth, woman, and set four 
cups and plates/ With a dale of grumbling she 
obeyed, and as he sated himself I could see the 
big hands av him all a thrimble. At me fayther's 
direction she brought from the cupboard the bist 
taypot, a piece he cherished oncommon high, 
having -brought ut from China seas whin little 
more than lad and risked his life, so the story 
ran. in bringing ut away,'' 

"Oh, how exciting/' exclaimed Jill; "and 
this is the one ! " 

Lord Lni.iis raised the lid of the teapot and 
examined it afresh with an added interest- 

M Do go on/ J 

M Not that one. as ye shall hear/ As I told ye 
me mither set it by Mishael's elbow and wint to 
the shtove for the kittle while he sat there, a 
dishpairful look upon his face. At the sight av 
him me fayther laughed. * Was iver so kmg- 
faced a lover ? ' sez he. * I wud ha' thought so 
mittlesouie a lad wud ha" sat wi' an arm about 
his swate heart's waist, AJther all it may prove 
a long" parting, for fortunes are not gathered like 
shards upon a highway/ ' I court in me own 
fashion/ replied Mishael, with a show of bravado; 
f but since yc suggest it — -- * and he drew back 
his arm to throw around me, Mother av Mercy, 
whin one thinks a v the little things that deshtroy 
the happiness av life ! " 

She stopped and thrust the palms of her hands 
over her eyes* 

** One wonders if there is a God at all/ 1 

" What happened ? " 

" J Twas just that shmall action ! The slave 
av his coat fouled the spout av the tayptjt and 
with a crash it sh truck the brick floor and 
shmithered into atoms. Will I iver for git the 
scane that followed ! Sudden, as it came the 
shtorm ceased and me fayther pointed a finger 
to the fragments on the floor, f 'Twas wan av 
two/ he sez, ' in a praste's house back o' a little 
temple at Nansiug on the Yang-tse. I tuk a 
knife-thrust in me shoulder to pay for ut, ayc\ 
and was pursued a hundrid miles down river 
before I shook off the yiLIow divils who weie 







tither me. And now 'tis smithered by a reeking 
rabbit-snatcher who shovels dung for a livelihood. 
Ye try to shteal me daughter and ye smash 
me home. By God ye shall right that sicond 
wrong 'fore iver ye shall clap an eye on her agin/ 
' 'Twas an accident,' shtammered Mishael; 
' show me the way to right ut and I will.' And 
shtill pointing at the floor me fayther answered, 
1 There were two of them— go aist and bring the 
second here.' ' An' if I do ? ' 'If you do, then, 
mebbe ' — he nodded toward me — -' ye might ask 
with better chance av success.' Mishael thought 
awhile, thin ' How do I know there is a second ? ' 
' Ye've my word.' * Ye might be fooling me ! ' 
' Hiven made ye fool enough.' f S'pose I wint 
and that, too, was bruk ? ' ' Why, thin,' replied 
me fayther, ' ye '11 find an opium house in any 
China town where, if ye smoke deep enough, ye 
can imagine a pritty wedding in the afther slape.' 
Mishael set his jaw and shtruck the table a blow. 
' I'll do ut,' he cried, and me fayther shmiled, his 
thin lips curling down. * Ye women can lave 
us,' sez he. Phwhat happened aftherward I 
don't rightly know. Me fayther directed him 
I s'pose and passed a paper with a drawing on ut. 
He gave him a note, too, to a ship's captain at 
Kingstown harbour. I waited outside in the 
moonlight. Prisintly I heard a shtep and found 
Mishael beside and his arms around me. ' 'Shh,' 
he whispered, * no tears, mavourneen, 'tis a grand 
quest I'm afther^ I'll find the taypot niver doubt 
and a fortune m ut. Think just av the day whin 
I'll be back and ye shall take ut in yer hand and 
fill me cup wi' everlashting happiness.' Thin he 
kissed me and I watched him go out av the grey 
into the black av night." 

" And did he come back ? " questioned Jill. 

" The saisons came and wint, ten years passed 
by, but nayther word nor sight av him. Other 
lads came courting me, but I wud ha' none av 
'em, though me fayther scorned and me mither 
railed at me. Me word had been given and I 
waited 6n me lover to return. It was in the fall 
of the ninth year me fayther died and me mither. 
mebbe she could not thrust him alone, followed 
a six weeks later. For all their showing, they 
left little enough behind. Part av this cottage 
I bought with me inheritance and spint the rist 
furnishing a shelf av sweets and bootlaces to 
kape starvation from the door. * 'Tis on'y for a 
little while,' I tould meself, * for Mishael is on 
the way — he's on the way.' 

" 'Twas a bitther winter that followed — the 
snow drift in the valley yander Tvas six feet deep 
and more. Night was settin' in and I mind 
dhrawing a stool to the fire, and warming me 
hands and thinking how chill and lonesome the 
world could be for a woman alone. And settin' 
there I heard a knock to the strate door. 'Twas 
onlikely anyone wud be abroard, and I hesitated 
to belave me ears. But prisintly the sound 
repeated, and above the timpest I heard a voice 
which cried * Opin for the love av God.' In a 
thrice I had the bolts drawn and the wind threw 
back the door upon its jambs. Leaning against 
the house side, his back toward the night, stud 
a man — but Merciful Mary ! 'twas more like a 
corpshe he looked. In tatthers be was dreshed f 

and the faytures av him were set in hollow 
caverns like the face of a granite quarry blashted 
into light and shadow. Clutched to his breast 
was something wrapped in a bit av sacking. 

" ' Who are ye so ill clad in such a weather ? ' 
sez I. He made to answer, but a fit of coughing 
took him, and niver have I seen a man so 
shaken by the evil. ' Whoever ye are come into 
the warmth,' sez I, and putting an arm about 
him I led him here and set him in a chair before 
the fire. All the while his eyes rested upon me 
with a look indishcribable — 'twas as though his 
hunger for something were being appeased by 
the very sight av me. ' There,' sez I, ' sit ye 
quiet while I put a kettle to boil and fetch ye a 
blanket.' Thin it was he laughed — a queer 
laugh — more av a cough it was — and spoke. 
* Aye, boil the kittle, mavourneen, and we'll 
dhrink our tay togither,' and with shaking hands 
he drew the wrappings from the object he had 
held to his breast and set this little taypot upon 
the table. I lookt from him to it, sthumbled a 
pace forward, and dhropped me head upon his 
knees. ' Nay, no tears,' he begged, his fingers 
playing in me hair. * I'm back, mavourneen — 
phwhat's left av me. Have I kep' ye waiting 
over long ? ' • Thin I tuk his head upon me 
shoulder and pillowed it there for a long, long 
while and not a word passed bethween us. But 
where his coat slave was torn I saw the white 
flesh av him was scarred and dhrawn in a dozen 
places. 'Twas not the worst av ut 1 ' sez he, 
reading the direction av me eyes ; ' yer fayther 
had a grim wit whin he sint me on such an errant. 
Five years they kept me in a prison with three 
inches av wather on the floor. That was afther 
the first time I thried, and failed. Then I 
eshcaped and attimpted again. I hid ut safe 
before the divils caught me. They dhrew fine 
wire over me limbs and with a razor ** 

Mother O' Donnel broke off short and sat back 
in her chair with clenched fists. 

"If iver I rache Hiven," she cried, " one 
favour on'y shall I ask. To spind a day in hell 
and satisfy miself that the coals are banked high 
round the man who was me fayther." 

" And what happened ? " said Jill. 

The fire burnt out of the old woman's eyes 
and the distant look returned. 

" We dhrank our tay togither that night," 
she said, " and afther I tuk him upon me lap 
like the child av me own I snail niver nurse, and 
cradled him. He died as the dawn broke — 
forty-siven years ago." 

There was a low, mechanical hum outside the 
shop, and a moment later the door opened and 
Lord Louis' chauffeur entered. 

" The tyre is O.K. now, m'lord," said the man. 

Jill did not seem aware of his entrance. She 
was doing something to her eyes with an entirely 
ridiculous chiffon handkerchief, but Lord Louis 
rose to his feet and produced his pocket-book. 

" We are infinitely indebted, madam," he said. 
" Edwards, my coat is in the shop yonder." 
From the case he took a number of bank-notes. 
" Will you teH. ne vMt we owe you ? " 

Mother O'Donnef routed herself and lifted 




her eyes to the level of his hands. They riveted 
there for a space before she spoke. 

" Ye ondershtand now why I cannot oblige ye ? +> 


r ' Ye think me a foolish old woman, perhaps ? " 

" On the contrary, a memory such as yours 
could hardly be sold for twenty- five 

"Twinty-five? " 

" A mere figure of speech/' 

" With twinty-five pounds I could pay 
tiie mortgage — I " 

" G^me, Jill," said Lord Louis, " we 
have lingered too long as it is . A thousand 
than ks t Mrs * Q* Do ti nel t for you r grac ions 
entertainment." He moved 
toward the door* 

" Wait I Mebbc such a 
chance might niver come 

\im. I'm old— too 
■ild to pay the price 
av houlding that 
mimorv, Ye'd give 
me > 

"Assuredly/ 1 

Mother O'Donncl 
^emed to come to 
a sudden resolution, 
iad opening a 
drawer in the 
dresser took 
out a sheet 
if paper and 
with averted 
eyes wrapped 
i: quickly 
round the 

Take ut — 
tab? ut 'fore 
I change me 

Lord Louis laid 
five bank - notes 
upon the table 
and picked up the 
>rruill green plate. 

"This," he Said, 
'" I can carry in my 

,r As you plase ! " came the staggering 
answer; r * but go— go quickly." 

She came as far as the shop door and 
watched them climb into the car and 
drive away. As they turned the corner 
it the village end Jill saw her still stand- 
ing there, the old hands pressed convul- 
sively to the withered, barren breasts. 

In the turn of the road where the woods 
thinned to the village a simple fellow 
with poppies in his hair was busily 
employed. Men take their pleasures in different 
ways, and this engaging rustic was taking his 
by burying wire nails point upward on the metal 
surface of the road, 

Mather O r Donnel turned slowly into the shop 

:.'V © 

V, V • 

w- ■" . t 4 

:t^ v ' : 


and entered the parlour beyond. Her watery 

eyes looked down at the table — and the price of 

her sac r trice. 

" Twenty-five pounds/' she muttered, " Ach, 

well I " 

She moved across the room and opened the 
cupboard door. On the 
shelf was a row of china 
teapots identical in design 
to the one Lord Louis had 
purchased. She took the 
nearest and placed it in 
the centre of the mantel- 

Jill , did not address a 
word to her husband until 
they had covered nearly 
three miles, and then her 
remark was crisp and to 
the point. 

" I hate you— I think you 
are a beast/' 

11 Don't say that/' he 
replied, "for I was about 
to increase your scope of 
knowledge," He paid no 
attention to her silence and 
■ ceded : "The Imitation 
Oriental China Factory of 
Newcastle, which started 
its inglorious career four 
years ago last autumn, 
d ist i n guish thei r wares 
from those of any other 
firm by placing two 
cobalt dots on the 
underside/' He undid 
the paper parcel and in- 
verted the little teapot for 
her inspection, " There 
I hey are, you see ? " 

Jill opened her 
eyes very wide. 

" Louis ! " she 
exclaimed, " but if 

that's true- " 

"After long 
abstinence," h e 
observed, " it is 
always refreshing 
to return to the 
truth/ 1 

"The old devil," 
said Jill — then — 
" but you were 
deceived as well — 
or why did you 
give the twenty- 
five pounds ? " 
For answer he 
drew from his pocket the little green plate and 
remarked : — 

*■ A piece of really good quality Celadon is 
always worth buying. Of course I paid rather 
highly, but she gave us an excellent tea." 


■v*(/- H 

^J **il 






The Diamond Jubilee of a Great Library. 


Illustrated by A. Ferrier. 

\ I'lhVs hns been the mirror 
of fashion in English literature 
for three -quarters of a century, 
l his very year, It is not simply 
a name for a great circulating 
library, but a national insti- 
tution, Mudie 's is a tradition 
for the general stream of 

English reading in its time, and so also for 

English authorship, because the two live on 

each other. Therefore 

it is not too much to 

say that here has Ixen 

a clearing -house for 

English though t> habits, 

and deeds, as these have 

swung into the eternal 

Sea of Print, 

Ce rtainl y , if yo u wan t 

to know the real Eng- 
lish reader, man or 

woman, in particular 

the reader of London 

Society and the London 

middle classes, yon must 

go and ask Mudie. 

" lie, being dead, yet 

siH-aketh " ; for the 

spirit of Charles Edward 

Mudie, who invented 

the modern circulating 

library, still lives in New 

Oxford Street, across 

from the British 

Museum, Personality 

was in it aJl, as it is in 

everything original or 

lasting, and the Mudie 

Touch has not lost 

itself to-day p as we 

shall see. 

Do you happen, your- 
self, to be in a public line 

of business ? II so you 

will, now and then, get 

queer, weird letters from people. You keep those 

letters, because they are a hall-mark of confi- 
dence in you. M udie's archives contain epistles 

like that , one of them dated as recently as March 

last. M Please/' it says, " be so good as to 

reply to my letter respecting the book entitled 
Harry Stottell's Works.' " You need a moment 


Ft cm a phdUfraph in iht p$umi&* &f hh $&n^ tkt frrtstnt 

hmd &J ' (fit /irw f Mr* Arthur Mud it. 

to discover that the request was for " Aristotle s 
Works " ! u Send me." another subscriber 
wrote, * Bath Under Bone Ash/ " instead of 
14 Bath Under Beau Nash " ! Particularly 
wanted was " The Uncomical Traveller/' by 
Charles Dickens, but the applicant only got 
1 The Uncommercial Traveller." More dim- 
cult to meet was the demand, M If you haven't 
anything recent by Julius Ca^ar, give me some- 
thing about him. 11 It was the war which 

brought to Mudie 's an 
order for " Blackmore's 
Alsace-Lorraine.*' Most 
likely a prompt copy 
of his novel* " Alice 
Lorraine/ 1 caused dis- 
appointment, It took 
longer to puzzle out 
" A Darn Bee/' by 
" GeJIiott," as George 
Eliot's " Adam Bede." 
Of course, "Green Car 
Nation " meant that 
oncestirful novel. " The 
Green Carnati on." 
" Paternoster Row," by 
George Gissing, was 
identified as implying 
his "New Grub 

Many well -known 
people -have been con- 
stant readers and visi* 
tors at Mu die's ; some, 
what you might call 
'habitues/' Gladstone, 
the last Lnglbh super- 
states man who pilgrim- 
aged among the old 
bookshops in search 
of a " find/* was fre- 
quently in the library, 
! lie was never in 
quest of new books, 
which, indeed, fell upon 
like leaves, thanks to 
an aeknowledging post- 
card. What he sought was a likely bargain 
in some volume or edition that concerned 
his owt> subjects, say Bishop Butler or 
Horace. 11 he knew Gardiner, the historian, 
an^lffla^fielll^up^llgilellii^or of " Erewhon." 

him at 

Ha ward en 
hopeful of 




he might easily have run against them 
at Mudie's, for they were often there. So 
was Richard Garnett, of the British Museum, 
and certainly the G.O.M. knew and esteemed 
him as a Grand Old Bookman. Another fre- 
quent visitor was Cardinal Manning, a smiling 
ptl!ar of asceticism, embodying the faith and 
traditions of the Middle Ages transmuted into 
the spirit of modem progress. 

Oh I Mudie's has caught the echo of many 
a famous foot, the Ionic columns in the large 
saloon have looked down on many a face with 
a name. One picturesque figure was David 
Christie Murray, the novelist, in his velveteen 
jacket, mostly the same jacket- More pictu- 
resque still was Wilis tier, the artist, who would 
look in aud ask whether anybody was reading 
his " Gentle Art of Making Enemies." Not 
many people were, when it was new, but copies 
of the book are now worth stealing. Darwin's 
M Origin of Species " appeared in 1859, four 
years after Mudie had moved from Southampton 
Row, where he began most modestly in 1^44. 
There had been Ji The Voyage of the Beagle " 
in 1840, and there was to be " The Descent 
ol Man " in 1871. These books, with the cor- 
responding writings of Thomas Henry Huxley, 
Alfred Kussel Wallace. John Tyndall, and other 
master men* stood for perhaps the greatest 
ungle leap forward in knowledge that the world 
hi^s known, and they took their message through 
th^ door of Mudic 's and out again. 

Science and religion 1 Mudic 5 looked on 
at the conflict, was a good servant in it* although 
we, in more charted waters, can now see that 
there was no conflict but merely a new assessing 
of values. M Draper's Conflict " was a target 
in the fray; and yet how often, in this present 
year of grace, has a battered copy of it had to 
be handed over Mudie's counter ? Hardly ever, 
one ventures to say. Then the song of social 
reform came piping down New Oxford Street 
in William Morris's " Dream of John Bull/' 
and " News from Nowhere." The note of 
spiritualism, meaning, broadly* belief in another 
life in another world, was sounded by F, \Y. 
Myers, Tt has been echoed still more definitely 
by Sir Oliver Lodge, Father hugh Benson, Sir 
Arthur Go nan Doyle t and a growing host of 

The ghosts of many a cause, won, lost, or 
still in doubt, walk the corridors of Mudie's. 
They knew the blast that Mrs. Lynn Linton 
blew out of the west for the woman's movement* 
Dear lady 1 what a daring person she was 
supposed to be, and so dangerous I She was 
earlier than Sarah Grand and " The Heavenly 
Twins/' and maybe she was not as *' advanced." 
It was her friend, amiable Grant Allen, who 
carried the woman s red flag of revolt to the 
hill-top and there planted it. Again Mudie 
lias looked on the pageant of progressive ideas, 
taking his part in it more, or less, or refusing 

to tote Liffltf ^ftihffifltfffi 1 right ' lrMn 




the standpoint of a " select library/' But 
always he was theTe, always he was going out 
into the world with his boxes of books* 

Most folk think only of Mudie 's in novels, which 
is quite wrong, and yet, in a sense, quite right. 
The great traffic has been in novels and so will 
bo, for the simple reason that the story is the 
literary thing common to everybody, old and 
young, educated or not. The traffic in other 
writings, biography and autobiography, travel 
and history, belle$*teUre$ and poetry, is aiso, 
however, very great. The ordeal of our long war- 
time has made it greater, and yet the return of 
the average reader, the reader in mass, is ever 
to the novel. Why not ? Everything comes 
within it. Nothing, nowadays, is left out of it. 
assuredly not if Mr. H- G* Wells can help that. 

Most men read novels for recreation, as 
Lord Russell of Killowen used to read a 
' H shocker" after a hard day, and as Mr. Lloyd 
George does to-day, Therefore men send their 
office-boys to Mudie's for stories with stir and 
" go *' in them, and sometimes, maybe, for 
others, not always "in stock/' which cry a 
different appeal* But fi action M is the man's 
fodder in fiction, the blow and ..he blood, unless 
he foe a " literary fellow/' and then he seeks, 
of ten t anyhow, the " analytical novel." 

Now, the woman, whethei she be 
governed alone by her sex -mM met or 
by that set in a framing of intelli- 
gence, education, intellect, is a better 
novel-reader than a man. She begins, 
though she may not know* it, with a full 
understanding of the title of Charles 
Lamb's essay : * - The Pleasures of 
Anticipation/' That is what every 
woman knows on the literary high- 
road, and naturally it carries her over 
the hills and far away in the pages of 
fiction. She reads, if she be any real 
woman at all, for a stimulus of thought 
and feeling; which, in her case, may be 
more powerful, and, therefore, even 
when she reads rubbish, she reads 

seriously, throwing herself into what she 
reads, whereas a man does not. Watch 
respectfully, because also seriously, how 
a woman will regard a shelf of new 
library novels from which she means to 
choose one. Red, blue, green I G>lonrs 
speak to her, and most likely she will 
in turn pick out three stories so bound. 
Their titles, the melody and promise of 
them— that is important ; their end- 
ings, happy or unhappy — that is vital, 
for no woman likes a bad ending, even 
in a story I She makes her choice quickly, 
as the man of Scripture was bidden to 
sit down and write quickly, and most 
likely she chooses well. 

Mudie's business takes the form of 
thousands of books circulating hither 
and thither, and never, happily, all 
coming home at once, because there 
would not be room to store them. 
They travel oversea in tin - lined 
boxes so well made that on occasion 
these have gone down into great waters and 
been fished up again without harm befalling 
the contents. There also are the ■" cat acorn bs " 
below New Oxford Street in which Mudie stores 
his retired and retiring literary battalions. It 
is a sad and ghostly land of forgotten names and 
forgotten tomes, but, oh p so peaceful ! Nobody 
is there at night when the rats, inevitable under 
ground, sally forth, seeking literature to devour. 
Once their supper consisted of four novels 
entitled " The Brilliant Peggy/' " The Loves of 
Miss Anne," " Juicy Joe/' and " Love Among 
the Ruins/' Why not ? 

There were circulating libraries before Mudie r s, 
but they were different — " moribund reservoirs/' 
somebody described them, " of dry and old- 
fashioned novels/' You will find them, and the 
using of them, satirized in Sheridan's play, 
** The Rivals." They were contracted little 
affairs, working meanly and inwardly, rather 
than outwardly, in the spacious spirit iwhich 

ou* Sl p H |^^ a<*>. 



should go with 
books. Here came 
the high idea of 
Charles Edward 
Mudie, begotten 
partly, perhaps, 
of the smallness 
of his father's 
newspaper shop 
down beside 
Cheyne Walk, in 
Chelsea, where 
Thomas Carlyle 
lived later* partly 
perhaps from 
reading Milton, or some other seer, on the right 
mission of books, His idea was to scatter books, 
the best books, the product of the nation's best 
brains, by the thousand, nay, by the hundred 
thousand j throughout London and: the towns 
and villages of the United Kingdom. He lived 
to do it and it goes on, though he has been in his 
grave for a quarter of a century. 

Imagination is the parent of most large 
ventures which succeed, because imagination 
means simplicity. Mudie was a 
simple man, possessed by a simple 
idea, and. once he had launched 
it, it carried him far in the ocean 
of books and through some strange 
adventures. He was not a man 
who- professed literature, but he 
was a good reader, with a taste for 
poetry, and he had an instinct for 
all books, It was this, perhaps, 
as much as a sound grip on the 
Safe business road, which led him 
to be named " Dictator of the 
London Literary World." ° So," 
Carlyle said to him at one of Lady 
AshburnhanVs receptions, ff you 
are the man who undertakes to 
supply the world with books, 
to divide the sheep from the goats ; a very 
serious thing, eh ? " 

Leave it to Mudie I That came to be a saying, 
and he did his best to live up to it, always 
bearing in mind that his responsibility was a 
business in the form (if a family library. Let 

a wolf in sheep's 
clothing creep into 
one of his boxes, let 
it go to some vicar- 
age or quiet rural 
home, and where 
would he be? Mu die's 
was really by way of 
being a family news- 
paper which had a 
large circulation in 
the print and paper 
of other people. 
Naturally, in that cir- 
cumstance, he elected 

for the safe line, 
even when someone 
might charge him 
with being unheroic. 
He was a librarian, 
not a hero ; but 
wh^n he got books 
after his heart and 
his judgment, he 
could be all the hero, 
bol d , venturesome , 
daring to a degree 
which made the 
old book- world of 
London hum with 

" Why/ 1 sarcastically demanded an author 
who had felt Mudie's "tyranny/' "didn't 
you refuse to circulate 4 Bleak House ' because 
of the character of Mr. Chad band ? " The 
works of Dickenss old more widely than those 
of any other Victorian novelist, but much of 
their circulation was in " part form " and Mudie 
did not need so many as in different circum- 
stances he would have done. " Of course," 
he was upbraided, " you took 
thousands of * Adam Bedc r on 
account of Dinah Morris, the 
beautiful Methodist I " Poor man, 
he was apt to find himself wrong 
with some literary personage what- 
ever he did, but that fear neither 
quenched his ardour nor his en- 
durance, as the archives of his 
house, if you be admitted to 
their intimacy, make manifest. 

When the third and fourth 
volumes of Macaulay's " History of 
England " appeared in December, 
i$55p he ordered two thousand 
Hve hundred copies of them* 
Fancy the stir this order made 
in the town departr*ent of our 
oldest publishers* the Longmans, of Paternoster 
Row. " Do you know the weight of this 
number ? You don't 1 Well, the two volumes 
scale about seven pounds, so r if you add 
a few to the two thousand five hundred copies, 
you have a dead weight of nine tons. Wc 
can't deliver that in a hand -cart, Mudie will 
have to come and fetch his tons " ; and Mudie 
did. Suppose, glancing 
over his archives, we 
record, in a simple but 
eloquent table, some of 
his other ri big deals/' 
thus ;— 

1857, " livings tone's 
Travels in South Africa/ 1 
3*500 copies, 

1859, 4 " Tennyson's 
Idylls of the King," 1 .000 
co j ties. 

1861, " Essays and 

^litlBEES OF A PAST -AfflU' 







R Yews" (an anonymous work which made as much stir 
in Us day as " Lux Mundi *' dicl irfounO, a f ooo copies. 

1861, C>tor£e, Eliot's l4 Sins Manier/' 3.000 ropier* 

186S, Queen Victoria's * l Jf uriial if Our Life in the 
Hi fib lands" ijOoo cop-re, 

iS69»McQiiitoek*S " Vnya^eff the Fox" in search 
cf Franklin, 3,000 copies, 

1873, Lady Brassey's * l Voyage if the S MtkfffN** 1 
1,000 copies. 

i88o» Lord Beacons field *i novel, * ( Endymicn/' in 
three volumes, 3,000 copies. 

Those deals were repealed in spirit during 
the 'nineties, though Charles Edward Mutiie, 
the pioneer, Could not Ion go r make them ; fur 
vt- find the library taking three thousand copies 
of St ante y's " Darkest Africa," a two -volume 
work, and two thousand five hundred copies 
of Lord Roberta's 4t Forty-One Years In India," 
also a two- volume book, at a large price. Of the 
M Life of Tennyson/' by his son, the present 
holder of the ti;Ie, Mudie's took two thousand 
and it made two volumes. Namxn's " Farthest 
North " begot an order for 
twelve hundred. Lord Morlcy's 
" Gladstone, " in three volumes, 
one for a thousand, and Mr- 
Winston Churchill's biography 
<*f his father an order for a like 
n u rube r . Bear i i\ mind a 1 wa ys , 
that those were " advance 
orders/' and therefore some- 
thing of a gamble in what a 
particular book might achieve 
with the public. You need to 
be a prophet if you are to be a 
librarian, assuredly if you are 
to be Mudie's, 

Its record first call for a con- 
temporary novel was, probably, 
three thousand five hundred 
eo pies of Si r Ha 1 1 Ca ine *s ' J Gh ris - 
tiaii/* now a dim spectre on 
a fading horizon. With it 

there, and in figures at Mudie s, 
there is to be bracketed Miss 
Marie Co re Ill's " Master Chri-> 
tian," of which three thousand 
copies were needed. But later, 
and higher, comes Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward's romance, " The 
Marriage of William Ashe " 
with a Mudte record of three 
thousand two hundred and 
sixteen copies. Be it noted 
that, . L i nee she first won titowy 
fame, Mrs. Ward has been a 
" best circulator "—may this 
counterpart of "best seller" 
be invented ? — at MudieV 
whose sound, solid English 
tastes, interesting but "safe/ 1 
she well represents. 

It was all different in the 
era of the comfortable three- 
vol vi me novel, which Mudie 
brought to an end. just because 
it had finished its mission. Once 
it was. or was thought to be, 
a pillar of the circulating library, to be. in fact, its 
main support* Then in 1S94 something hap- 
pened and it died as a result of a " scrap of 
paper " signed, first by Mr. Arthur O. Mudie, 
then and now the chief of the house, in succession 
to his father ; and by the other circulating 
libraries. There had been " The Green Carna- 
tion/' for whose authorship a well -remembered 
name had been mentioned. Then there came 
" The Yellow Aster, ,h of Mrs. Mannington 
Caff yn, and it M boomed "in the most magnificent 
way. Mudie's kicked, on business grounds, 
about being left with enormous cargoes of " three- 
deckers/ ' and out of that rumpus was bom 
the present six-shilling novel, which, by the 
way, the war has sent up to six and nine pence, 
and various other figures. It was thus, " un- 
wept, unhonoured, and unsung," that the 
''three-decker/' once the "only certain packet 
to the Islands of the Blest," went down, Stlutfd 
by the brave old flag which flies over Mudie's— 
on red-letter days only ! 



S~> A 




LD Ben Til- 
bury yawned 
and knocked 
his pipe out 
against the 
bars of the 
stove. He had had a 
capacious tea, and felt at 
ease with the world. His wife sat oppo- 




site stitching some white linen garment. 
His daughter Mildred was" kneeling on the 
floor, and by the light of a candle, to assist the 
uncertain glow of the paraffin lamp, was cutting 
out a skirt from a paper pattern. 

Thesa dressmaking activities always produced 
in him — as far as was possible in such a stolid 
nature — a mild feeling of irritation. Such a lot 
of fuss and talk ! A restless, finicky job, dress- 
making ! He himself was a gardener, a man 
who dwelt in broad issues. He planted in the 
autumn for the spring, in the spring for the 
summer, slowly, methodically, reverently. It 
was big, noble work. Dressmaking ? Why, 
what you made in the autumn was out of date, 
finished, in the spring ! 

He yawned again. 

His wife remarked : — ■ 

" Them gals of Mrs. Skinner's was over this 
afternoon. They want to take Willie and Agnes 
to the treat at Betterleigh. I don't know, I'm 
sure. They only went to one a week come 
Friday. What be your moind about it, Ben ? " 

" Eh ? " answered her husband. He was not 
listening very attentively. As a matter of fact, 
he was cogitating the attractions of a glass of 
ale and a chat with old Sam Bannerman at the 
Bunch of Grapes, It was Saturday evening, 
and old Sam would be there, and probably Sid 
Potton and Johnny Curtis. The conversation 
would be worth while. They would talk about 
the land and the weather, and dogs, and tobacco, 
and ratting, and other manly subjects. 

He blew down his pipe and said, very slowly : — 

u Oh I I doan't know. Might be all roight." 

His wife added something about the frocks 
the Skinner girls were wearing, and after a few 
nunutes Ben stood up and stretched himself. 

He walked to the cottage 
door and took down his 
cloth cap. 

" O-er," he drawled, " I 
remember I must take that 
insurance money over to 
Carter's at Tringham." 

" Don't be late, Ben," his wife called 
out as he raised the latch. 
" Oo-ay ! " 

It was a fine, calm night as he ambled down 
the village street. He felt a quiet glow of con- 
tentment pervade him. A hard day's work in 
the open air, a good meal, and then the prospect 
of a glass of ale and a pipe, mellowed with an 
interesting talk about ratting — what more could 
any reasonable man demand ? 

He passed the time of night with several 
acquaintances, and was just turning the corner 
that led to the Bunch of Grapes when he ran 
right into an individual who started at the sight 
of him and gripped his arm, at the same time 
remarking : — 

" I was looking for you." 
It took Ben some seconds to recognize this 
gentleman in the fur coat ; and then he realized 
that it was his employer's secretary. He had no 
great love for his employer. His name was 
Ephraim Pendlebury-Leyfus. He had inherited 
an enormous fortune from his father, who had 
made it out of some patent medicine. Mr. 
and Mrs. Pendlebury-Leyfus were newfangled, 
bumptious upstarts of people who were always 
driving about in motor-cars, and took no interest 
in gardening. Fortunately for Ben, he never 
came in contact with them. They paid him well 
and appointed him head-gardener, and he had 
three assistants. He was allowed to do as he 
liked. It was a large and well-appointe«n estate. 
Neither had he much regard for the secretary, 
Mr. Smythe, a fussy, overdressed, patent- 
leather-booty person, but still — one had to be 
polite. He said : — 

" Good evenin', Mr. Smythe 1 " 
And then he observed for the first time 
that Mr. Smythe was in a state of frenzied 
agitation. His were quivering, and the 

Copyright, 191 9, by Stacy Aumonier. 



pupils of his eyes were dilated. He said, 
breathlessly : — 

" Come. Get into this car. Mr. Pendlebury- 
Leyfus wants to see you at once." 

"Wants to see I ! At this toime o' noight 1 " 

The delicately-planned scheme of his vegetable 
beds flashed through his mind. What can a 
gardener do in the dark, on a Saturday night of 
all nights ? 

But the other seemed in no mood for explana- 
tions. He gasped something about being quick. 

It was very important. A large car was 
panting against the hedge just down the road. 
The lights of the Bunch of Grapes winked at him 

44 Well, I doan't know," he said. " I doan't 
reckon to — — ■" 

But he found himself being bustled along. 
He got reluctantly into the car and the door 
snapped to. The secretary wound the thing up 
and jumped into the front seat, and they were 

It was barely a mile to Cottersley Park, where 
the Pendlebury-Leyfuses lived, and the drive 
could not have occupied five minutes, but it 
gave Ben an opportunity for reflection. It 
was a closed car, so he could not converse with 
the secretary. Having dismissed the gardening 
idea, he wondered whether it was anything to 
do with his pay. But no, he had only been paid 
that morning. Had something been stolen and 
they were going to accuse him ? Perhaps Mr. 
P.-L. wanted him to go to Scotland, where he 
had another large estate ? He had once men- 
tioned the subject. But Ben had no intention 
of falling in with any wild ideas like that. Born 
and bred in Cambridgeshire, and he meant to 
die there. 

The car swung through the lodge gates, up the 
avenue of elms, then took a broad cirpular sweep 
and came to a stop by the front door. It had 
given him very little time for thinking, but 
coming up the drive he remembered that yester- 
day there had arrived a party of dark-skinned 
people, tremendous swells he understood. One 
was a kind of emperor of a foreign country. 
There had been a great to-do. The Pendlebury- 
Leyfuses loved to entertain anyone like that. 
But still they would be hardly likely to want to 
see the gardener. Eating and drinking was 
more their mark. 

He found himself ushered into the oak-panelled 
library, where a fire was glowing in the grate. 
As he crossed the hail he had heard the hum of 
conversation and the chink of glass in the dining- 

" Everything seems all right," he thought. 

In less than two minutes the door opened and 
Mr. and Mrs. Pendlebury-Leyfus both entered. 
They were in evening dress, and he observed the 
same air of feverish anxiety about them which 
had characterized Mr. Smythe. Mrs. Pendlebury- 
Leyfus was so agitated that she shook hands with 
him, and her husband said : — 

" Sit down, Tilbury." 

He darted about the room as though he were 
looking for something. Then he came to a halt 
by the fireplace, and his wife sank back into an 

easy chair and sniffed at a bottle of smelling- 
salts. She was a large, florid woman, dressed in 
pink. Diamonds glittered from unexpected 
portions of her anatomy. She kept swaying 
backwards and forwards, the jewels on her 
fingers flashing as she waved the bottle of scent 
in front of her heavily-powdered face. 

" You're a painted-up-looking cow ! " thought 
Ben, but out loud he said : — 

11 What might you be wantin' me for, sir ? " 

Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus stretched his legs wide 
apart and looked down at his white waistcoat. 
Then he coughed and cleared his throat. 

" We've had a terrible upset here. Tilbury, 
and we want you to help us out of it." 

Having said this, he looked at his wife as 
though for encouragement. The lady still being 
occupied with the scent-bottle, he came boldly 
to the point. He said : — 

" We want you to dig a grave at once at the 
bottom of the vegetable garden." 

14 What ! " 

It was almost a shout which escaped the head- 
gardener. Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus held up* his 

" Pray be calm," he said. " I will explain it 
all to you. We have had the honour of a visit 
from His Highness the Ameer of Barochistan and 
his suite. Unfortunately, last night there was a 
deplorable — er— accident. His Highness comes 
from a country which, as you may imagine, has a 
rather different moral code to ours. Things are 
quite different. He is all-powerful, an autocrat. 
It appears that last night one of his servants 
angered him by some carelessness, and in a 
misguided moment His Highness struck the 
servant with a metal pipe. Unfortunately, the 
servant died ... do you understand ? " 

Ben was on his feet, his cloth cap gripped 
firmly in his hand. 

" Look-ee here, Mr. Leyfus," he proclaimed, 
in a stentorian voice, " I'll have nowt to do wi' 
this. I'm a gardener. I'll do a honest day's 
work with any man on the country-side, but you 
won't get me assist in' of a lot of black people to 
murder each other." 

Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus frowned and twirled 
his small waxed moustache. Then he spoke like 
a father addressing a small child. 

" That isn't exactly the position, Tilbury. 
It's much more involved than that. You see, 
in his own country it isn'f a crime. There 
would be no question of that." 

" Murderin' is murderin', wherever it's done ! " 

" It was in any case only an accident, a most 
unfortunate accident. And the public scandal 
must not be faced. You can have no idea whal 
the political results might be. Barochistan is a 
very important and powerful State on the borders 
of India. If His Highness were to be involved 
and disgraced in our courts it might lead to war. 
Think of this, Tilbury ; by doing as you are asked, 
by just digging this grave, you may save England 
from war ! " 

" Only a little one. It needn't be very deep," 
said Mrs. Pendlebury-Leyfus, who spoke for the 
first time. G 

" SNPfttaT^i^iKmM* do "*'*• lt ' s 




i**t irregler* It's a case for the police, But if 
they want to hush it up they must do their own 
buryin". It's not my place. I'm a God-fearin* 

" The reason, we have called on you is obvious* 
The dug-up soil of the vegetable garden is the 
most suitable and least likely to attract notice. 
But if our friends had done it themselves it is 
more than probable that you or your assistants 
would have quickly discovered it. It is 
important for you to select a likely spot and to 
arrange matters so that none of the gardeners 
have occasion to dig anywhere near it in the 
future. You must cover the spot with tomato 
iraoies or something. If you will do this I will 
Rivt you fifty pounds and raise your salary 
anther fifty pounds a year/' 

Mr, Pendlebury-Leyfus said this very clearly 
*od deliberately, and his wife leant forward, 

flashing her large rings, almost as though she 
were about to tear them off her ringers and hand 
them to him. 

Ben stood there gripping his cap* The horrid 
little visions of what could be done with fifty 
pounds danced before his eyes, But he managed 
to thrust them back. He turned round and spat 
in the fire. Then he pulled himself up and 
repeated : — - 

" No. I'll have nowt to do wi't/ 1 

J * Oh, Mr. Tilbury/' pleaded the lady. " Think 
of your country ! 

Ben shrugged his shoulders, and Mr. 
Pendlebury-Leyfus said, sharply : — 

" Very well, then- We must go and report the 
matter to the Ameer/' 

He walked to the door, and the three of them 
trooped out in{o the hall. 

It was W'W^^ doors and 




r. cesses and old furniture. Bon was anxious to 
find the way out, but a little uncertain of his 
sense of direction. He found himself by the open 
door of the dining-room, and his host said : — ■ 

" Just a moment. Tilbury. Come in." 

It was very difficult to avoid doing so. He 
peered into the room. A large mahogany tab'e 
gleamed under the diffused light of several 
standard lamps. There were silver bowls of 
fruit, nuts, and sweets, decanters of wine, and 
diminutive glasses filled with some bright green 
liquid. The secretary stood fidgeting by the 
fireplace. Three dusky gentlemen, one in evening 
dress, the other two in turbans' and curious 
coloured wrappings, were seated round the table 
sipping their wine and talking in low voices. 
Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus walked in and said :— 

41 Gentlemen, this is my gardener I spoke of. 
He refuses to do what we ask." 

Ben stood just inside the door. The three 
Orientals stood up and bowed very solemnly. 
The one in evening dress immediately whispered 
to the other two in some queer lingo. He was 
apparently the interpreter. It was easy for Ben 
to decide which was the Ameer. He was the 
biggest of the three. He had a fat, puffy face 
and a bright green turban with a star in the 

11 He looks a disagreeable -loo kin' swine," 
thought Ben. " Just the sort to murder a 
servant and then hush it up." 

The interpreter was a thin, cadaverous-looking 
individual. He rubbed his hands together in a 
cringing sort of way as he talked to the Ameer. 
Then he nodded several times and, leaning with 
one hand on the table, he said, in a smooth, 
staccato voice : — ■ 

" His Highness say if the man-gardener do 
his bidding he give him a lakh of rupees and the 
order of the Three Flamingos." 

" Oh ! " exclaimed Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus. 
" Do you hear that, Tilbury ? He'll give you 
a lakh of rupees. A fortune ! An absolute 
fortune ! " 

Then he bobbed three times very quickly in 
t!ic direction of the Ameer and muttered :-- 

" Very kind ! Very kind indeed, I'm sure." 

Ben sturdily shook his head at the room. 

" No-a 1 " he said. M I wo-an't do it." 

The interpreter was biting his nails, and 
whispering again to the Ameer. Ben turned and 
said : — 

" And now I'll be gettin' back." 

The interpreter exclaimed in a high-pitched 
voice : — 

" Wait, wait I Let us discuss some more. 
Will not the man occupy himself with some little 
refreshment while we further consider what may 
be done ? " 

Ben thought of the good beer waiting him 
at the Bunch of Grapes. The sight of these 
foreign drinks nauseated him. Besides, who 
would trust this crowd ? How could he know 
that the drink was not doped ? Nevertheless, 
a bright idea occurred to him. He stepped up 
to the table and took an apple. 

" Thanks ! " he said. " I'll munch this along 
the road." 

Then he turned his back on the room and faced 
Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus standing by the door. 

" I'm surprised at you, sir," he said. " I 
thowt I was workin' for a gen'leman. I'm goin* 
now, and I'd like to know what's to prevent me 
lodging a information about these goin's on to 
the police ? " 

He looked at the little beady eyes of his 
employer, and then became aware of a strange 
contraction in them. They were looking past 
him. At the same time a voice at his back said : — 

" Only this ! " 

He turned sharply. Three paces from him 
stood the oleaginous Mr. Smythe, covering him 
with a horrid glittering little barrel. The room 
danced before his eyes. He was conscious of a 
great confusion of sounds and feelings. Mrs. 
Pendlebury-Leyfus screamed. The Orientals 
were whispering excitedly together. Someone at 
the back was talking at the same time. It was 
some time after the event that he recollected 
that during this curious strained confusion the 
voice of Mrs. Pendlebury-Leyfus said once quite 
clearly : — 

"Do be careful. It's so difficult to get a 
gardener ! " 

The whole thing was now on a different plane. 
It was one thing to be a man, to stick up for one's 
rights, to do what one thought was honest ; but 
quite another thing to throw away one's life 
when there were those others depending on one. 
The vision of the cottage flashed before his 
mind. His wife quietly stitching, Mildred 
cutting out a skirt on the floor, the two young 
ones asleep upstairs ; their rooms, their furniture, 
the bit of garden, the sweet air of the fields and 
lanes, the smell of shag, all the pleasant associa- 
tions of a satisfying life. Mr. Smythe was 
saying : — 

" Don't you be great fool, Tilbury. It's got 
to be done, and you've got to do it, and moreover 
you've got" to keep it quiet. You've got the 
choice of a large fortune and an increase in 
salary, or alternatively — we'll be digging a grave 
for two ! " 

After all, he hadn't actually got to murder 
anyone himself. If the poor fellow had been 
done in, well, there it was ! Someone had got 
to bury him. And, of course, a black man 
wasn't like a nice clean Christian. It was an 
affair all among themselves. AU he had to do 
was to dig. But what about the servants ? 
He would surely be detected ! 

Some of these apprehensions were probably 
apparent on his face, for Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus 
said, quite affably : — 

" There, there, Tilbury, that's right ! Do not 
let it worry you. His Highness and suite occupy 
the Trianon wing on the ground floor beyond the 
conservatory. None of our servants have access 
to it while His Highness is there. From the 
door on the east side you are immediately 
among the thick shrubs which lead all the way 
to the vegetable garden. The night is fairly 
dark. I have sent Torkins and Peel downstairs 
to prepare the billiard-table. Don't forget to be 
careful about the sijqI vou choose, so that you 

win tetfelTf OP WOtt&PW tracks later on - 



Mr. Smythe and one of His Highness's. repre- 
sentatives will accompany you." 

Ben stood dubiously by the door twirling his 

" It's a nice thing, I must say ! " he grumbled. 

The Eastern gentlemen were still talking with 
great volubility. At length the interpreter said :— 

"It is well. His Eminence Khan Shuan will 
accompany the man-gardener." 

Ben didn't like it at all, but he walked surlily 
out into the hall. Two pocket-torches were 
produced, and the party started. His Eminence 
Khan Shuan and Mr. Smythe tip-toed across the 
hall, but the hob-nailed boots of Ben seemed to 
make a deafening noise on the marble tiles. 
They entered the long conservatory, dimly 
lighted, and then went silently through the door 
at the end into a corridor which was the artery 
of the Trianon wing. It was very dark there, 
and there was a faint perfume of some exotic 
scent. Ben thought he heard someone moving 
in the rooms. His heart beat quickly. He felt 
almost friendly towards Mr. Smythe, who walked 
behind him with a loaded revolver. He was in 
any case a white blackguard. But these dark- 
skinned swine ! They might do anything. He 
wouldn't trust them at the end of a yard rope. 
Good Lord ! In one of these rooms was one of 
them lying murdered ! 

They kicked against the door at the end, and 
slipped the bolt. 

" Now, quiet ! " whispered Mr. Smythe, 

That was all that was said. They groped 
their way along the shrubs, Ben going first and 
the secretary close on his heels, the Oriental 
silently bringing up the rear. They reached the 
tool -shed and Ben got out his spade. 

And then a curious itchy feeling came to him. 
A spade, was a very useful implement. A man 
could do a lot with a spade. A sudden biff and 
down would go the armed brigand. Ben felt 
capable of coping with the Oriental alone. But 
then — well, in that case he would probably be 
a murderer himself ! Moreover, Mr. Smythe 
seemed to have some prevision of this hidden 
potentiality. He kept well clear. He covered 
Ben with the torch from a distance of six or 
seven yards ; a comfortable distance to fire, 
but too far to do really * useful spade-work. 
Also the Oriental swell had an unfortunate 
habit of hovering all over the place. You could 
never be quite certain where he was. 

Ben selected the spot. It was just beyond the 
vegetable marrows. The soil was very loose 
and there was a great pile of manure handy with 
which he would be able to temporarily cover up 
the effect of his operatioas. He marked it out 
and then began to dig. And he dug, and dug, 
and dug ! By nature, being a good gardener, he 
had acquired the genius of doing everything very 
slowly, but on this occasion he dug like a mad- 
man. He made up his mind that he could not 
escape his fate, so he decided to get through it as 
quickly as possible. 

In half an hour he had dug quite a nice grave. 
Not very deep and not very trim at the edges, 
but still a useful, workmanlike job. The manure 

would cover up the minor deficiencies. Now 
and then he would rest for half a minute and spit 
on his hands. Mr. Smythe was hovering rest- 
lessly a few yards away, but His Excellency Khan 
Shuan remained absolutely inert and impassive, 
holding a torch to reveal the gardener's handiwork. 
When it was finished Ben was perspiring freely. 
He mopped his brow and said : — 

" Well, that's done, and now I'll be off ! " 

" Oh, no ! " sharply replied Mr. Smythe. 
" You must come back, and we must all report 
the result. They may require you further." 

" I'm danged if I'm goin' to have anythin' to 
do with the buryin'," quoth the gardener. 

Khan Shuan made gestures with his hands, as 
though he suspected Ben's intentions, and was 
prepared to thwart them. Mr. Smythe nodded, 
implying that he had the matter well in hand. 
He said : — 

" That's all right, your Excellency. He'll do 
what he's told ! " 

The little revolver once more came vividly to 
the fore. 

" By gosh ! " thought Ben. " You wait till I get 
you alone, you smug worm ! " 

" Leave the spade and go ahead I " ordered the 
man with the revolver. 

Ben growled and did as he was told. 

They groped their way back through the shrubs 
and regained the corridor. It seemed darker and 
more unpleasant than ever. Khan Shuan made 
signs to the other two to wait. He then vanished 
through one of the doors. Ben thought he heard 
a sound of low wailing or chanting. Doubtless 
some of their ridiculous monkey-tricks performed 
in honour of the dead. There was a distinct 
smell of incense. Khan Shuan kept them waiting 
nearly five minutes. At last he reappeared, and 
noiselessly lead the way back to the white 
quarters. When they regained the main hall 
there was a sound of singing. They found the rest 
of the party in the French drawing-room. A 
large gramophone was emitting the vibrato of 
some fruity Italian tenor. This was obviously 
done for the benefit of the servants. To give an 
air of normality. 

The Ameer was seated in a large gilt chair with 
his hands crossed over his protruding front. He 
was just staring at the gramophone with no 
expression on his face at all. The interpreter 
was leaning forward nervously playing with his 
fingers, Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus was standing 
pompously leaning against the grand piano like 
a showman. Mrs. Pendlebury-Leyfus was lying 
back in an upholstered chair fanning herself, as 
though entertaining foreign potentates were the 
most usual experience of her life. 

" H'm ! they're a merry-looldn' bunch ! " 
thought Ben. " Give me the bar-parlour of 
the Bunch of Grapes any day in the week ! " 

They all started as the trio entered the room. 
Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus walked quickly across 
and shut the door. 

" Don't turn off the gramophone," he said. 
" Let's talk round the fire." 

The Ameer didn't stir. But the others gathered 





" Well, then, you had better go and — put it in, 
you three," replied Mr. Pendlebury-Lcyfus. 

" I'll have nowt to do with buryin'," growled 

No one took any notice of him. The in- 
terpreter seemed nervous. He asked one or two 
questions in English, and one or two in " Baro- 
chistan," or whatever the language was. Khan 
Shuan appeared to be very emphatic about 
something. They went and reported matters to 
the Ameer. The doleful potentate nodded slowly, 
and after some time he raised his right hand and 
whispered in the interpreter's ear. There was 
more talk, . and then the interpreter returned 

to the hearth-rug. He bowed jerkily and 
said : — 

" Sir and Lady, His Highness has spoken. 
This is a delicate matter wnich concerns the 
Ho-Bidyeh Soh-Kranto faith. If you will kindly 
permit, we will retire and in quite soon a little 
while report the dictates of The Master." 

" Yes, yes, of course ! Charmed/' replied 
Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus, bowing. 

The Barochistan party retired ceremoniously. 
When they had gone the watchful Mr. Smythc 
hovered by the door, Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus 
walked up and down the room with his hands 
behind his back. Ben, who was becoming 





i #1 

indifferent to this social atmosphere, and some* 
what desperate at the confinement, threw himself 
negligently into the large settee facing the fire, 
and crossed his legs. Mrs. Pendlebury-Leyfus 
was in the easy chair at right angles to Ben. 
He stared at her, and he noticed that her eyes 
were fascinated by his boots. She could not 
look at anything else. The gramophone was still ' 
screaming forth excerpts from Leoncavallo, and 
suddenly Mrs. Pendlebury-Leyfus burst out 
crying. She dabbed her eyes, and sniffed. Her 
husband turned and patted her shoulder. 

" Come, come ! " he said. " What is it, my 

Vol tviiL-10. 

" It's a nice thing you've let us in for," she 
cried, hysterically, * asking ail these black people 
here. And then they go murdering their servants 
and make all this upset ! Am) we have to put up 
with it, and have the gardener's hob-nailed boots 
in the drawing-room and all that ! " 

" But I'd like to know," replied Mr. 
Pendlebury-Leyfus, irritably, " who it was who 
insisted on having them asked ? When the 
introduction came, who sent off the telegram 
almost at once ? Who sent the announcement 
about the visit to tin; Motfihtg Post?" 

" I — I never wanted them to come l M 

" Well, tor God's sake don't carry on now. 



We've got to see it through. They'll be back 
soon, and if they see you crying it will put the 
lid on it." 

" I wish they'd go ! The dirty black scum I " 
The storm lasted some time, and the lady never 
took her eyes from Ben's boots, except to cry. 
The gardener felt quite convinced that the 
presence of his boots annoyed her much more than 
the murder of the servant. And he felt pleased 
about this. He stuck them out and dangled 
one insultingly across his knee. 

It must ^ have been about twenty minutes 
before the guests returned, and when they did it 
was patent that some important decision had 
been arrived at. They all looked more solemn 
and ceremonious than ever. Khan Shuan and 
the interpreter ushered the Ameer to his former 
seat, where he sat impassively staring at the 
gramophone, which had now left off. They then 
bowed very low to him, and then to each other. 
Khan Shuan took a seat a few yards away by the 
side of the Ameer, and the interpreter remained 
standing. He again bowed to Mr. and Mrs. 
Pendlebury-Leyfus, and crossed his arms. Then, 
speaking very slowly and distinctly, he said : — 

44 Honoured sir and lady, His Highness has 
consulted with the inner circle of Fuhan-Shi. It 
is all now plainly written how in the circumstances 
one should act. The servant of His Highness 
who met with the regrettable accident was a low 
menial of the seventh grade of Kili-Tsor. Never- 
theless, he was a true believer and follower of 
Soh-Kranto faith. And it is written that none 
must touch the body of a disciple of The Master 
without being himself a follower of one who has 
been initiated into the mysteries of the Ho- 

" Quite so ! Quite so ! " jerked out Mr. 
Pendlebury-Leyfus. " You mean that your 
people must bury him themselves, eh ? " 

M Not so," replied the interpreter. " Or only 
partly so. The position of His Highness, and of 
His Eminence Khan Shuan, preclude them from 
fulfilling this office. Even I, unworthy as I am, 
am of the second grade of a K&li-Tsor. There 
remains, therefore, among His Highness 's per- 
sonnel only the serving-man Ku Tan." 

44 Ah ! Oh, yes, quite so ! What do you 
propose to do, then ? " 

" It will be necessary to initiate the man- 
gardener into the mysteries of the Ho-Bidyeh ! " 

" No ! I'm danged if I do ! " roared Ben, 
and he pushed past the interpreter and made for 
the door. " I doan't want to know nothin' 
about the blamed mysteries ! " 

The disgusting Mr. Smythe stood guarding the 
door, and the sight of him infuriated Ben beyond 

" You I " he cried out. " You shoot and be 
blistered I " 

He took a step forward to his inevitable 
destruction, when suddenly he found himself 
gripped from behind. He caught sight of a pair 
of long black hands clutching his chest. Ben, 
though not so young as he once was, put up a 
sturdy fight. 

" They mean to kill me," he thought, and 
determined that they should pay the full price 

for it. His arms, legs, mouth, and bullet head 
were all brought into violent play. But they 
were strong, these Orientals, and they seemed to 
know something about this kind of game. One 
of them gripped him low round the ankles. 
Another whipped a silk handkerchief across his 
mouth. His arms were locked in some tricky 
fashion. He was bound up like a fly in a spider's 
web. The struggle was over in three or four 
minutes. Mrs. Pendlebury-Leyfus started to 
scream, and her husband yelled out : — 

" Don't scream, you fool ! " 

Ben's eyes were also bandaged, but he could 
hear Mr. Pendlebury-Leyfus calling out to him, 
nervously : — 

" It's all right, Tilbury ! It's only a matter of 
form ! They won't hurt you if you do what they 
tell you ! " 

He wanted to yell out " Form be blowed ! " 
but the bandage prevented him from doing 
anything more than growl. He felt himself 
lifted up and carried out of the room. They 
crossed the hall and entered the corridor of the 
Eastern quarter. It seemed a long way, much 
farther than when he had walked it just 

" They mean to bury me in that grave ! " he 
kept thinking. He did not struggle. He was 
husbanding his strength for the last great fight. 
Suddenly the procession stopped. Evidently 
Mr. Smythe was still there, for he heard the 
interpreter say : — 

" Honoured sir, it will not be necessary for us 
to further detain you. The room consecrated 
for the time being to the Holy Faith may be 
entered only by the followers of Soh-Kranto, 
and those about to be initiated into the mysteries 
of the Ho-Bidyeh." 

Mr. Smythe muttered something and appar- 
ently departed. They went through another 
door and Ben heard it snap to behind them. 
He was alone — alone with these heathers and 
believers in the black arts. He would have given 
anything to have retained Mr. Smythe and his 
sociable little pistol. Alone in a dark and 
forbidding world. If he was to die, might he die 
Quickly and directly. He had heard terrible 
stories of these black foreigners — stories of 
tortures and lingering agonies. 

He was placed in an upright chair with his 
hands tied behind. He heard whispering going 
on, and very faintly the clang of some queer 
musical instrument. . His nose, his only fully 
active organ, was keenly alive to the penetrating 
incense. Then hands lightly flicked his head. 
He felt his eye-bandage being removed. It came 
away and he blinked at the full light. For some 
seconds he could visualize nothing, and then 
suddenly an object directly opposite him took 
shape, and he wanted to cry out with horror ! 

Against the dark window curtain was a low 
couch, and on it was a body covered with a white 
sheet. It was the murdered man ! This was 
the beginning of their disgusting ceremony ! 
In the corner of the room was a dark figure 
playing on some metallic toneless instrument. 
The Ameer himself was walking to and fro and 
making tec a liar passes in ihe direction of the 




corpse. Behind him was the man who had 
removed his bandage- 

Ben felt the veins in his temples swelling. He 
wanted to shout, but he felt too nerveless even 
to struggle. He had no idea how long he sat 
there transfixed before the amazing climax 
came upon him. He could not detach what was 

real from what was the tissue of his imagination. 
He remained for a long time both before and 
after the dima* in a state of immovability. The 
truth did not get through to him. Was it the 
heat of the room ? The peculiar effect of the 
incense ? The weird chanting ? Or some more 
malevolent narcotic ? But m he ati ;v it the whole 



situation become inexplicably metamorphosed. 
The corpse suddenly sat up and pushed back the 
sheet and appeared to be a young man in a grey 
suit and a fresh complexion, who said : — 

" I say, confound it, you chaps ! I'm fed up 
with this!" 

And the Ameer behaved in a most peculiar way. 
His heavy mournful face suddenly seemed to 
expand into a broad, fat, jovial grin. And then 
he threw back his head and laughed. And the 
interpreter and His Eminence Khan Shuan 
seemed to be punching each other in the ribs, 
while the revivified corpse was exclaiming :— - 

" Don't make such a bally row ! They'll 
hear ! " 

But of course all this couldn't be true. It was 
some mad dream. The other thing v*as true — 
the murdered servant, the mystic rites. It 
couldn't be true that the dignified Khan Shuan 
was digging him in the ribs and calling him " a 
priceless old thing ! " But it certainly seemed 
to be true that someone was unbinding his hands 
and feet. He shook himself free, still staring 
incredibly at his captors. There was a lot of 
talk and noise, and his slow-moving brain had 
not yet grasped the significance of it. But after 
a time the interpreter took a chair and sat on the 
back of it, and said : — 

" Let's sec, old thing, what's your name ? " 

" Ben Tilbury." 

" Ah ! Ben, allow me to introduce you to 
Micky O'Burn from Jesus." 

The Ameer came forward and gripped his hand ; 
and, speaking in a slight Irish brogue, he said : — 

" Ben, ye're a rare old sportsman ! " 

Khan Shuan was introduced as Tiny Winkleson, 
the young man in the grey suit as Monty, and the 
interpreter announced himself as James Mulberry 

" Now that's all square," he added. " We're 
sorry to have led you up the garden in every 
sense, but you see what it is ? We've all 
come over from Jesus just to put it across these 
bally snobs, the Pendlebury-Leyfuses. They're 
the talk of the county. .But Monty has got to 
get away to-night. He's playing in a golf 
tournament to-morrow. But as he arrived with 
us and they probably counted us we thought the 
best way to get rid of him was to bury him in the 
garden. It will also be a pretty little memento 
for our host. We've got to stay on till Monday. 
There's a. bet on that we don't get detected. 
Now look here, Ben, have you got anything you 
can shove in that grave ? " 

Ben was still eminently solemn. He had not 
had time to adjust his vision to this violent 
perspective. He scratched his chin and thought. 
At last he said : — 

" Why, yes ! At the back of shed just up 
agin the stone wall afore you comes to the ricks 
is a litter of dead rats. Mr. Gateshead put 
down p'ison o' Toosday. I been meanin' to 
bury they." 

" Capital ! " exclaimed the interpreter, and the 
Ameer cut in with : — 

" Sure, that's foine ; and, look here, Ben, 

by V_ 



you've to take that extra fifty quid. And if any 
time this blackguard of an employer tries to 
come it over ye, just point over here to the 
vegetable garden and whisper ' rats ' ! " 

They all laughed and clapped him on the back, 
and the young man named Monty slipped on a 
dark overcoat and a felt hat. 

" Now," he said, " come on, Ben, we'll step 
out together. And you chaps keep the tom-tom 
stunt going while we perform the holy rites. 
I've just got time to catch the 10.17." 

The other three shook Ben's hand, and the 
Ameer said : — 

'■ You needn't come back, Ben. I'll make your 
apologies and explain that we've sent you back 
to your home under a spell of the Oke-p6ke, or 
something. We'll say ye're a real hot Soh- 
krantic, and don't you forget to work the rats 
for all you're worth." 

Ben shook hands solemnly, but after further 
discussion Khan Shuan and the interpreter also 
came as far as the grave and* helped intern the 
rats, leaving the Ameer in all his glory to play the 
tom-tom on a biscuit tin. The task was accom- 
plished in comparative silence. When it was 
finished and the pile of manure distributed over 
the mound, the conspirators again shook hands 
with Ben, and he walked slowly off, making his 
way out of the park by the east gate. He 
trudged slowly along, swinging his long arras. 
After a time he took the apple out of his pocket 
and munched it thoughtfully. He got into the 
lane by Purvey 's meadow and crossed the high 
road. The night was still fine and calm. It was 
just as he was passing the copse by the outskirts 
of Walley's Farm, which as you know is barely 
a quarter of a mile from the village church, that he 
suddenly stopped and threw the apple-core into 
the hedge. Then he slapped his leg, and uttered 
a low " Haw, haw, haw." Then he gathered 
breath and repeated the operation in a louder 
key. He must have stood three or four minutes. 
He was unable to go on. His " Haw, haw, haws " 
reached to heaven. A car passing along the 
high-road heard it, and someone remarked about 
" these disgusting villagers — always drunk ! " 

The tears ran down his cheeks and his body 
shook, and still he laughed. At length he took a 
large red handkerchief and cleaned himself up. 
He lighted his pipe, and his face again resumed 
its solemn repose. 

It was exactly 10.35 when he entered the 
cottage. Mildred had gone to bed and his wiie 
was just preparing to do so. She said : — 

" Halloa, Ben, you're a bit late. What's it like 
out ? " 

" Oh, middlin' ! " 

He hung his cloth cap up on the peg behind the 
door. Then he walked slowly to the fire and 
relighted his pipe from a red ember. His wife 
sat down and yawned. And Ben sat opposite 
her, and for several minutes there; was silence. 
At length, looking along the bowl of his pipe, he 
said : — 

" Let's see, what was you sayin' about them 
Skinner gals ? " 

Original from 

T | i ■ i v* i iuiiin mu inn / re^V^ 


XK'.'.}'* ' V* ' ™" I" 1 " 1 " ' " I H MM i i 

fE have been 

requested t O 

announce that 
the marriage arranged 
bet ween Viscount 
Me rri val e and Miss 
Hilary St. Orme will 
not take place, JJ 

Viscount Merrivalc 
was eating his break- 
fast when he chanced 
upon this announce- 
ment- He was late 
that morning, and, 
contrary to custom, 
was skimming through 
the paper at the same 
time. But the para- 
graph brought both 

occupations to an abrupt standstill. He stared 
at the sheet for a few moments as if he 
thought H was bewitched. His brown face 
reddened, and he looked as if he were about to 
say something. Then he pushed the paper 
aside with a contemptuous movement and drank 
his coffee. 


The following, which is one of Ethel 
M. Dells charming love stories, ap- 
peared elsewhere many years ago, 
and is here reprinted for ihe benefit 
of the great number of readers to 
whom it will be new. 

His servant, appear- 
ing in answer to the 
bell a few minutes 
later, looked at him 
with furtive curiosity. 
He had already seen 
the an nou ncement , 
being in the habit of 
studying society items 
before placing the 
paper on the breakfast - 
table. But Merri vale's 
clean-shaven face was 
lret-5 from perturbation, 
and the man was 

"Reynolds." Merri- 

vale said, " I shall go 

out of town this after- 
noon. Have the motor ready at four." 

" Very good, my lord." Reynolds glanced at 
the table and noted with some satisfaction that 
his master had only eaten one egg. 

" Yes, I have finished/' Me rri vale said, taking 
up the paper. " If Mr. Culver calls, ask him to 
be good enough to wait for me. And— that's 



Original from 

are. .THKqypHjjrHELPAPER at the 
M th 'Jif ' iliJlri^ htan i>st ill." 



all," he ended abruptly as he reached the 

" As cool as a cucumber ! " murmured Rey- 
nolds, as he began to clear the table. " I 
shouldn't wonder but what he stuck the notice 
in hisself." 

Merrivale, still with the morning paper in his 
hand, strolled easily down fo his club and col- 
lected a few letters. He then sauntered into 
the smoking-room, where a knot of men, busily 
conversing in undertones, gave him awkward 

Merrivale lighted a cigar and sat down 
deliberately to study his paper. 

Nearly an hour later he rose, nodded to several 
members, who glanced up at him expectantly, 
and serenely took his departure. 

A general buzz of discussion followed. 

" He doesn't look exactly heart-broken, " one 
man observed. # 

" Hearts grow tough in the West," remarked 
another. " He has probably done the breaking- 
off himself. Jack Merrivale, late of California, 
isn't the sort of chap to stand much trifling." 

A young man with quizzical eyes broke in with 
a laugh. 

11 Ask Mr. Cosmo Fletcher ! He is really well 
up on that subject." 

" Also Mr. Richard Culver, apparently," re- 
turned the first speaker. 

Culver grinned and bowed. 

" Certainly, sir," he said. " But — luckily for 
himself — he has never qualified for a leathering 
from Jack Merrivale, late of California. I don't 
believe myself that he did do the breaking-off. 
As they haven't met more than a dozen times, it 
can't have gone very deep with him. And, 
anyhow, I am certain the girl never cared two- 
pence for anything except his title, the imp. 
She's my cousin, you know, so I can call her 
what I like — always have." 

" I shouldn't abuse the privilege in Merrivale's 
presence if I were you," remarked the man who 
had expressed the opinion that Merrivale was 
not one to stand much trifling. 

" Well, but wasn't it unreasonable ? " said 
Hilary St Orme, with hands clasped daintily 
behind her dark head. " Who could stand such 
tyranny as that ? And surely it's much better 
to find out before than after. I hate masterful 
men, Sybil. I am quite sure I could never have 
been happy with him." 

The girl's young step-mother looked across at 
the pretty mutinous face and sighed. 

" It wasn't a nice way of telling him so, I'm 
afraid, dear," she said. " Your father is very 

" But it was beautifully conclusive, wasn't 
it ? " laughed Hilary. " As to the poor old pater, 
he won't keep it up for ever, bless his simple 
heart, that did want its daughter to be a vis- 
countess. So while the fit lasts I propose to 
judiciously absent my erring self. It's a nuisance 
to have to miss all the fun this season ; but with 
the pater in the sulks it wouldn't be worth it. 
So I'm off td-morrow to join Bertie and the 
house-boat at Ri vert on. As Dick has taken a 

bungalow close by, we shall be quite a happy 
family party. They will be happy ; I shall be 
happy ; and you — positively, darling, you won't 
have a care left in the world. If it weren't for 
your matrimonial bonds, I should quite envy 

" I don't think you ought to go down to 
Riverton without someone responsible to look 
after you," objected Mrs. St. Orme, dubiously. 

" My dear little mother, what a notion ! " 
cried her step-daughter, with a merry laugh. 
" Who ever dreamt of the proprieties on the 
river ? Why, I spent a whole fortnight on the 
house-boat with only Bertie and the Badger 
that time the poor old pater and I fell out over 
— what was it ? Well, it doesn't matter. Any- 
how, I did. And no one a bit the worse. Bertie 
is equal to a dozen duennas, as everyone knows." 

" Don't you really care, I wonder ? " said 
Mrs. St. Orme, with wondering eyes on the 
animated face. 

" Why should I, dear ? " laughed the girl, 
dropping upon a hassock at her side. " I am 
my own mistress. I have a little money, and — 
considering I am only twenty-four — quite a lot 
of wisdom. As to being Viscountess Merrivale, 
I will say it fascinated me a little — just at first, 
you know. And the poor old pater was so 
respectful I couldn't help enjoying myself. But 
the gilt soon wore off the gingerbread, and I 
really couldn't enjoy what was left. I said to 
myself, ' My dear, that man has the makings of 
a hectoring bully. You must cut yourself loose 
at once if you don't want to develop into that 
most miserable of all creatures, a down-trodden 
wife.' So after our little tiff of the day before 
yesterday I sent the notice off forthwith. And 
— you observe— it has taken effect. The tyrant 
hasn't been near." 

" You really mean to say the engagement 
wasn't actually broken off before you sent it ? " 
said Mrs. St. Orme, looking shocked. 

" It didn't occur to either of us," said Hilary, 
looking down with a smile at the corners of her 
mouth. " He chose to take exception to my 
being seen riding in the park with Mr. Fletcher. 
And I took exception to his interference. Not 
that I like Mr. Fletcher, for I don't. But I had 
to assert my right to choose my own friends. 
He disputed it. And then we parted. No one 
is going to interfere with my freedom." 

" You were never truly in love with him, 
then ? " said Mrs. St. Orme, regret and relief 
struggling in her voice. 

Hilary looked up with clear eyes. 

11 Oh, never, darling ! " she said, tranquilly. 
" Nor he with me. I don't know what it means ; 
do you ? You can't — surely — be in love with 
the poor old pater ? " 

She laughed at the idea and idly took up a 
paper lying at hand. Half a minute later she 
uttered a sharp cry and looked up with flaming 

" How — how dare he ? " she cried, almost 
incoherent with angry astonishment. ° Sybil 1 
For Heaven's sake ! See ! " 

She thrust the paper upon her step-mother's 
kneelj |a|nd point eg) F ^416 K Kj.^ger that shook 


T 55 

uncontrollably at a brief announce mem in the 
society column* 

" We are requested to state that the announce* 
ment in yesterday's issue that the marriage 
arranged between Viscount Merrivale and Miss 
Hilary St, Orroe would not take place was 
erroneous. The marriage will take place, as 
previously announced, towards the end of the 
season/ 1 

M What sublime assurance ! " exclaimed Bertie 
St. Orme, lying on his back in the luxurious punt 
which his sister 
was leisurely im- 
pelling up-strearn, 
and laughing up 
at her flushed 
face. ** This vis- 
count of yours 
seems to have 
plenty of decision 
of character, 
whatever else he 
raav be lacking 

Bertie St. Grme 
was a cripple, and 
spent every sum- 
mer regularly 
upon the river 
with his old man* 
servant, nick- 
named "the 

" Oh, he's quite 
Hilary declared- 
' + Let's talfc of 
something else I M 

"* But he means 
to keep you to 
your word, eh ? " 
her brother per- 
sisted , " How 
witl you get out 
oi it?" 

Hilary's face 
flushed more 
deeply, and she 
bit her lip. 

" There won't 
be any getting out of it 

w The end of the season I " teased Bertie, 
44 That allows you— let's see — four, five, six 
more weeks of freedom." 

" Be quiet, if >ou don't want a drenching I M 
warned Hilary. " Besides/' she added, with 
inconsequent optimism, M anything may happen 
before then. Why, I may even be married to 
a man I really like." 

" Great Scotland, so you may I " chuckled 
her brother, " There's the wild man that Dick 
has brought down here to tame before launching 
at society, He's a great beast like a brown bear. 
He wouldn't be my taste, but that's a detail." 

" I hate fashionable men I Ji declared Hilary, 
with scarlet face. " I J d rather marry a Red 


Don't be silly ! I am 

Indian than one of these inane men about 

" Ho I ho I " laughed Bertie, H Then Dick's 
wild man will be quite to your taste. As soon 
as he leaves off worrying mutton-bones with his 
fingers and teeth, we'll ask Dick to bring him to 

" You're perfectly disgusting ! " said Hilary, 
digging her punt-pole into the bed of the river 
with a vicious plunge* -l If you don't mean to 
behave yourself, I won't stay with you," 

H ' Oh, yes, you will/' returned Bertie, with 

brotherly assur- 
ance, M You 
wouldn't miss 
Dick's aborigine 
for anything — - 
and I don't blame 
you, for he's 
worth seeing. 
Dick assures me 
that he is quite 
harmless, or I 
don't know that 
I should care to 
venture my scalp 
at such cloiie 

" You're posi- 
tively ridiculous 
to-day." Hilary 

A perfect sum- 
mer morning, a 
rippling blue river 
that shone like 
glass where the 
willows dipped 
and trailed, and 
a girl who sang a 
murmurous little 
song to herself as 
she slid down the 
bank into the 
laughing stream. 
Ah, it was 
heavenly I The 
sun-flecks oil the 
water danced and 
swam all about 
her. The trees whispered to one another above 
her floating form. The roses on the garden 
balustrade of Dick Culver's bungalow nodded 
as though welcoming a Mend- She turned 
over and struck out vigorously! swimming up- 
stream. It was June, and the whole world was 
awake and singing, 

" It's better than the entire London season 
put together," she murmured to herself, as she 
presently came drifting back, 

A whiff of tobacco -smoke interrupted hm 
soliloquy. She shook back her wet hair and 
stood up waist-deep in the clear green water. 

"What ho, Dickl" she called, gaily. "1 
can't see you ; but: I know you're there. Come 
down antJihy^T^OTswim ' * J 

There i folfowed ' a r r>auseV ' "^tii a diffident 




voice with an unmistakably foreign accent made 
reply: — 

" Were you speaking to me ? " 

Glancing up in the direction of the voice, 
Hilary discovered a stranger seated against the 
trunk of a willow on the high bank above her. 
She started and coloured. She had forgotten 
Dick's wild man. She described him later as 
the brownest man she had ever seen. His face 
was brown, the lower part of it covered with a 
thick growth of brown beard. His eyes were 
brown, surmounted by very bushy eyebrows. 
His hair was brown. His hands were brown. 
His clothes were brown, and he was smoking 
what looked like a brown clay pipe. 

Hilary regained her self-possession almost at 
once. The diffidence of the voice gave her 

" I thought my cousin was there," she ex- 
plained. " You •are Dick's friend, I think ? " 

The man on the bank smiled an affirmative, 
and Hilary remarked to herself that he had 
splendid teeth. 

" I am Dick's friend," he said, speaking slowly, 
as if learning the lesson from her. There was a 
slight subdued twang in his utterance which 
attracted Hilary immensely. 

She nodded encouragingly to him. 

" I am Dick's cousin," she said. " He will 
tell you all about me if you ask him." 

" I will certainly ask," the stranger said, in his 
soft foreign drawl. 

" Don't forget ! " called Hilary, as she splashed 
back into deep water. " And tell him to bring 
you to dine on our house-boat at eight to-night. 
Bertie and I will be delighted to see you. We 
were meaning to send a formal invitation. But 
no one stands on ceremony on the river — or in 
it either," she laughed to herself as she swam 
away with swift, even strokes. 

" I shouldn't have asked him in that way," 
she explained to her brother afterwards, " if he 
hadn't been rather shy. One must be nice to 
foreigners, and dear Dickie's society undiluted 
would bore me to extinction." 

" I don't think we had better give him a knife 
at dinner," remarked Bertie. " I shouldn't like 
you to be scalped, darling. It would ruin your 
prospects. I suppose my only course would be 
to insist upon his marrying you forthwith." 

" Bertie, you're a beast ! " said his sister, 

" We have taken you at your word, you see," 
sang out Dick Culver from his punt. " I hope 
you haven't thought better of it by any chance, 
for my friend has been able to think of nothing 
else all day." 

A slim white figure danced eagerly out of the 
tiny dining-saloon of the house-boat. 

" Come on board ! " she cried, hospitably. 
" The Badger will see to your punt. I am glad 
you're not late." 

She held out her hand to the newcomer with a 
pretty lack of ceremony. He looked more than 
ever like a backwoodsman, but it was quite 
evident that he was pleased with his surroundings. 
He shook hands with her almost reverently, and 

smiled in a quiet, well -satisfied way. But, 
having nothing to say, he did not vex himself 
to put it into words — a trait which strongly 
appealed to Hilary. 

" His name," said Dick Culver, laughing at 
his cousin over the big man's shoulder, " is 
Jacques.. He has another, but, as nobody ever 
uses it, it isn't to the point, and I never was good 
at pronunciation. He is a French Canadian, 
with a dash of Yankee thrown in. He is of a 
peaceable disposition except when roused, when 
all his friends find it advisable to give him a 
wide berth. He—" 

" That'll do, my dear fellow," softly interposed 
the stranger, with a gentle lift of the elbow in 
Culver's direction. " Leave Miss St. Orme to 
find out the rest for herself. I hope she is not 
easily alarmed." 

" Not at all, I assure you," said Hilary. 
" Never mind Dick ! No one does. Come in- 
side ! " 

She led the way with light feet. Her exile 
from London during the season promised to be 
less deadly than she had anticipated. Unmis- 
takably she liked Dick's wild man. 

They found Bertie in the little rose-Jit saloon, 
and as he welcomed the stranger Culver drew 
Hilary aside. There was much mystery on his 
comical face. 

" I'll tell you a secret," he murmured ; " this 
fellow is a great chief in his own country, but he 
doesn't want anyone to know it. He's coming 
here to learn a little of our ways, and he's par- 
ticularly interested in English women, so be nice 
to him." 

" I thought you' said he was a French Cana- 
dian," said Hilary. 

" That's what he wants to appear," said 
Culver. " And, anyhow, he had a Yankee mother. 
I know that for. a fact. He's quite civilized, 
you know. You needn't be afraid of him." 

" Afraid ! " exclaimed Hilary. 

Turning, she found the newcomer looking at 
her with brown eyes that were soft under the 
bushy brows. 

" He can't be a Red Man," she said to herself. 
" He hasn't got the cheekbones." 

Leaving Dick to amuse himself, she smiled 
upon her other guest with winning graciousne^s 
and forthwith began the dainty task of initiating 
him into the ways of English women. 

She was relieved to find that, notwithstanding 
his hairy appearance, he was, as Dick had assured 
her, quite civilized. As the meal proceeded si e 
suddenly conceived an interest in Canada and 
the States which had never before possessed her. 
She questioned him with growing eagerness, and 
he replied with a smile and always that half- 
reverent, half-shy courtliness that had first 
attracted her. Undoubtedly he was a pleasant 
companion. He clothed the information for 
which she asked in careful and picturesque 
language. He was ready at any moment to 
render any service, however slight, but his atten- 
tions were so unobtrusive that Hilary could not 
but accept them with pleasure. She maintained 
her pretty graciousness throughout dinner, 
anxious to set Mm at his -ease. 



•'Englishmen are not half so nice," she said 
to herself, as she rose from the table. And she 
thought of the stubborn Viscount Merrivale as 
she said it. 

There was a friendly regret at her departure 
written in the man's eyes as he opened the door 
for her, and with a sudden girlish impulse she 

" Why don't you come and smoke your cigar 
in the punt ? " she said. 

He glanced irresolutely over his shoulder at 
the other two -men, who were discussing some 
political problem with much absorption. 

With a curious desire to have her way with 
him, the girl waited with a little laugh. 

" Come ! " she said, softly. " You can't be 
interested in British politics." 

He looked at her with his friendly, silent smile, 
and followed her out. 

" Isn't it heavenly ? " breathed Hilary, as she 
lay back on the velvet cushions and watched the 
man's strong figure bend to the punt-pole. 

" I think it is Heaven, Miss St. Orme," he 
answered, in a hushed voice. 

The sun had scarcely set in a cloudless shimmer 
of rose, and, sailing up from the east, a full moon 
cast a rippling silvery pathway upon the mys- 
terious water. 

The girl drew a long sigh of satisfaction, then 
laughed a little. 

" What a shame to make you work after 
dinner ! " she said. 

She saw his smile in the moonlight. 

" Do you call this work ? " She seemed to 
hear a faint ring of amusement in the slowly- 
Utered question. 

" You arc very strong," she said, almost in- 

" Yes," he agreed, quietly, and there suddenly 
ran a curious thrill through her — a feeling that 
she and he had once been kindred spirits together 
in another world. 

She felt as if their intimacy had advanced by 
strides when she spoke again, and the sensation 
*as one of a strange, quivering delight which 
the perfection of the June night seemed to wholly 
justify. Anyhow, it was not a moment for 
probing her inner self with searching questions. 
She turned a little and suffered her fingers to 
trail through the moonlit water. 

" I wonder if you would tell me something ? " 
she said, almost diffidently. 

" If it lies in my power," he answered, cour- 

" You may think it rude," she suggested, with 
a most unusual attack of timidity. It had been 
her habit all her life to command rather than to 
request. But somehow the very courtesy with 
*hich this man treated her made her uncertain 
°f herself. 

11 1 shall not think anything so — impossible," 
he assured her, gently, and again she saw his 

" Well," she said, looking up at him intently, 

will you — please — let me into your secret ? I 
Promise I won't tell. But do tell me who you 
are ! " 

There followed a silence, during which the 
man leaned a little on his pole, gazing downwards 
while he kept the punt motionless. The water 
babbled round them with a tinkling murmur 
that was like the laughter of fairy voices. They 
had passed beyond the region of house-boats 
and bungalows, and the night was very still. 

At last the man spoke, and the girl gave a 
queer little motion of relief. 

" I should like to tell you everything there is 
to know about me," he said, in his careful, 
foreign English. " But — will you forgive me ? 
— I do not feel myself able to do so — yet. Some 
day I will answer your question gladly — I hope 
some day soon — if you are kind enough to con- 
tinue to extend to me your interest and your 

He looked down into Hilary's uplifted face 
with a queer wistfulness that struck unexpectedly 
straight to her heart. She felt suddenly that 
this man's past contained something of loss and 
disappointment of which he could not lightly 
speak to a mere casual acquaintance. 

With the quickness of impulse characteristic 
of her, she smiled sympathetic comprehension. 

" And you won't even tell me your name ? " 
she said. 

He bent again to the pole, and she saw his 
teeth shine in the moonlight. " I think my 
friend told you one of my names," he said. 

44 Oh, it's much too commonplace," she pro- 
tested. " Quite half the men I know are called 

And then for the first time she heard him laugh 
— a low, exultant laugh that sent the b!ood in a 
sudden rush to her cheeks. 

" Shall we go back now ? " she suggested, 
turning her face away. 

He obeyed her instantly, and the punt began 
to glide back through the ripples. 

No further word passed between them till, 
as they neared the house-boat, the high, keen 
notes of a flute floated out upon the tender 

Hilary glanced up sharply, the moonlight on 
her face, and saw a group of men in a punt 
moored under the shadowy bank. One of them 
raised his hand and sent; a ringing salutation 
across the water. 

Hilary nodded and turned aside. There was 
annoyance on her face —the annoyance of one 
suddenly awakened from a dream of complete 

Her companion asked no question. He was 
bending vigorously to his work. But she seemed 
to consider some explanation to be due to him. 

" That," she said, " is a man I know slightly. 
His name is Cosmo Fletcher." 

M A friend ? " asked the big man. 

Hilary coloured a little. 

" Well," she said, half-rcluctantly, 44 I suppose 
one would call him that." 

" I believe you're in love with Culver's half- 
breed American," said Cosmo Fletcher, brutallv, 
nearly three weeks later. He had just been 
rejected finally jmd emphatically by the girl 
who faced him in the stern of his skiff. 



She was very pale, but her eyes were full of 
resolution as they met his. 

" That," she said, "is no business of yours. 
Please take me back ! " 

He looked as if he would have liked to refuse, 
but her steadfast eyes compelled him. Sullenly 
he turned the boat. 

Dead silence reigned between them till, as 
they rounded a bend in the river, and came 
within sight of the house-boat, Fletcher, glancing 
over his shoulder, caught sight of a big figure 
seated on the deck. 

Then he turned to the girl with a sneer. 

" It might interest Jack Merrivale to hear of 
this pretty little romance of yours," he said. 

The colour flamed in her cheeks. 

" Tell him then ! " she said, defiantlv. 

" I think I must." said Fletcher. " He and I 
arc such old friends." 

He waited for her to tell him that it w?s on his 
account that they had quarrelled, but she would 
not so far gratify him, maintaining a stubborn 
silence till they drew alongside. Jacques rose 
to hand her on board. 

" I hope you have enjoyed your row," he said, 

" Thanks ! " she returned, briefly, avoiding 
his eyes. " I think it is too hot to enjoy any- 
thing to-day." 

The tea-kettle was singing merrily on the 
dainty brass spirit-lamp, and she sat down at 
the table forthwith. 

Jacques stood beside her, silent and friendly 
as a tame mastiff. Perhaps his presence after 
what had just passed between herself and 
Fletcher made her nervous, or perhaps her 
thoughts were elsewhere and she forgot to be 
cautious. Whatever the cause, she took up the 
kettle carelessly, and knocked it against the 
spirit-lamp with some force. 

Jacques swooped forward and steadied it 
before it could overturn ; but the dodging flame 
caught the girl's muslin sleeve and set it ablaze 
in an instant. She uttered a cry and started up 
with a wild idea of flinging herself into the river, 
but Jacques was too quick for her. He turned 
and seized the burning fabric in his great hands, 
ripping it away from her arm and crushing out 
the flames with unflinching strength. 

" Don't be frightened ! " he said. " It's all 
right. I've got it out." 

" And what of you ? " she gasped, eyes of 
horror on his blackened hands. 

He smiled at her reassuringly. 

" Well done, man ! " cried Dick Culver. " It 
was like you to save her life while we were think- 
ing about it. Are you hurt, Hilary ? " 

" No," she said, with trembling lips. " But 
_bnt " 

She broke off on the verge of tears, and Dick 
considerately transferred his attention to his 

" Let's see the damage, old fellow." 

" It is nothing," said Jacques, still faintly 
smiling. " Yes, you may see it if you like, if 
only to prove that I speak the truth." 

He thrust out one hand and displayed a 
scorched and blistered palm. 

" Call that nothing ! " began Dick. 

Fletcher suddenly pushed forward with an 
oath that startled them all. 

" I should know that hand anywhere ! " I e 
exclaimed. " You infernal, lying impostor ! ' ' 

There was an elaborate tattoo of the American 
flag on the extended wrist, to which he pointed 
with a furious !au°h. 

" Deny it if you can ! " he said. 

Jacques looked at him gravely, without the 
smallest sign of agitation. 

" You certainly have good reason to know 
that hand rather well," he said, after a moment, 
speaking with extreme deliberation. " consider- 
ing that it has had the privilege of giving you 
the finest thrashing of your life." 

Fletcher turned pale. He looked as if he were 
going to strike the speaker on the mouth. But 
before he could raise his hand Hilary suddenly 
forced herself between them. 

" Mr. Fletcher." she said, her voice quivering 
with anger, " go instantly ! There is your boat. 
And never come near us again ! " 

Fletcher fell back a step, but he was too 
furious to obey such a command. 

" Do you think I am going to leave that con- 
founded humbug to have it all his own way ? " 
he snarled. " I tell you ■" 

But here Culver intervened. 

" You shut up ! " he ordered, stcrnl v. " We've 
had too much of you already. You had better 

He took Fletcher imperatively by the arm, 
but Jacques intervened. 

" Pray let the gentleman speak, Dick," he 
said. " It will ease his feelings perhaps." 

" No ! " broke in Hilary, breathlessly. * - No, 
no ! I won't listen I I tell you f won't ! " 
facing the big man almost fiercely. " Tell me 
yourself if you like ! " 

He looked at her closely, still with that odd 
half-smile upon his face. 

Then, before them all, he took her hand and, 
bending, held it to his lips. 

" Thank you, Hilary ! " he said, very softly. 

In the privacy of her own cabin Hilary re- 
moved her tatters and cooled her tingling cheeks. 
She and her brother were engaged to dine at 
Dick's bungalow that night, but an overwhelm- 
ing shyness possessed her, and at the last moment 
she persuaded Bertie to go alone. It was plain 
that for some reason Bertie was hugely amused, 
and she thought it rather heartless of him. 

She dined alone on the house-boat with her 
face to the river. Her fright had ma^e her some- 
what nervous, and she was inclined to start at 
every sound. When the meal was over she 
went up to her favourite retreat on the upper 
deck. A golden twilight still lingered in the air, 
and the river was mysteriously calm. But the 
girl's heart was full of a heavy restlessness. 
Each time she heard a punt-pole striking on the 
bed of the river she raised her head to look. 

He cam* at last — the man for whom her heart 
waited. He was punting rapidly down-stream, 
and she eouid not see his face. Yet she knew 
him. by tLie swing oil his &rms, the goodly strength 


J 59 


* his muscles — and by the suffocating boating and she heard the punt bump against the house- 

t h^art. She saw that one hand was boat* 

'^daged, and a passionate feeling. that was "It's a gentleman ta see you, miss/' said the 

-roost rapture thrilled through and through, her Badger, thniatffwj A- jwev-and, grijua^f. visage up 

m tbe si?ht. Then he shot beyond her vision, the stairs. UllUtrOrl T Ur 1-irLnHgATI 



" Ask him to 
come up/' said 
Hilary , steadying 
her voice. 

A moment later 
she rose to receiver 
the man she loved. 
And he r heart sud- 
denly caused to beat. 

"You!" she 
gasped, in a choked 

He came straight 
forward. The last 
light of the day 
shone on his smooth 
brown face, with its 
steady eyes and 
strong mouth. 

" Yes,'* he said, 
and still through 
his quiet tones she 
seemed to hear a 
faint echo of the 
% u bdued twang 
which dwellers in 
the Far West some- 
times acquire. " I, 
John Merrivalc, 
late of California, 
beg to render tu 
you, Hilary St. 
Orme, in addition 
to my respectful 
homage, that free- 
dom for which you 
have not deigned 
to ask" 

She stared at 
him dumbly, one 
hand pressed 
against her breast. 
The ripple of the 
river ran softly 
through the silence. 
Slowly at last Merri- 
vale turned to go. 

And then, uncer- 
tainly',, she spoke, 

"Wait, please l" 
she said. 

She moved close 
to him and laid her 
hand on the flower- 
bedecked balus- 
trade, trembling 
very much. 

" Why have you 
done this ? JP Her 
quivering voice 
sounded like a 

He hesitated, 
then answered her 

" I did it because 
I loved you/' 
"And what did 

(< ' WHY HAVE \ 

OV DONE THIS ? * OHfli W#M7ATff D » 

you hope' to gain 
by it ? " breathed 

He did not re- 
ply, and she drew 
a little nearer as 
though his silence 
reassured her. 

i( Wouldn't it 
have saved a lot 
of trouble/' she 
^aid s her voice very 
low but no longer 
uncertain, M if you 
had given me my 
freedom in the first 
place ? Don't you 
think you ought to 
have done that ? " 

" I don't ki ow F " 
Merrivale said, 
" That U Mow spoilt 
my game. So I 
offer it to you now 
— with apologies." 

" I should have 
appreciated it — -in 
the first place/' 
said Hilary, and 
suddenly there was 
a ripple of laughter 
in her voice like an 
echo of the water 
below them. " But 
now I — I — have no 
use for it* It's too 
late* Do you know, 
Jack, I'm not sure 
he did spoil your 
game, after ilL 

He turned to- 
wards her swiftly, 
and she thrust out 
her hands to him 
with a quick sob 
that became a laugh 
as she felt his arms 
about her, 

*' You hairless 
monster ! " she said* 
"What woman 
ever wanted free- 
dom when she could 
have — Love ? " 

Two days later 
Viscount Merri- 
vale's friends at the 
club read with 
interest and some 
amusement the 
announcement that 
his marriage to Miss 
Hilary St. Grme 
had been fixed to 
take place on the 
last day of the 

Here i s something amusing by a new 
French humorist. 



The Rebellion 
of Animals. 

THE newt agencies have sent us a series of 
despatches which we publish in the order 
in which we have received them* Their 
importance will be obvious to every reader. 

horns is 

ay Google 

June 15/ A.— The rebellion of cart* 
in lull swing. A great meeting has 
been held in a public square. Four- 
teen motor-cars and twenty-two side- 
cars have been broken up and twenty- 
three chauffeurs locked up in a 
garage. A former winner of the 
Grand Prix de Paris has been chosen 

Ch&teauvQUXi Juw 1 6t A. — All the 
" old maids' pets " have formed a 
Red League, Grave disorders are ex- 
pected . The cats* the poodles, and 
the parrots have turned upon their 
mistresses and are out in strength. 

Nogeni - le - Roi, June 19th. — The 
plough -horses, having ducked their 
masters in the horse -trough, have 
made cum mem c^ute with the cows, 

1 62 


beginning to make its appearance 
among the goats. They have issued 
a statement that they are masters of 
the future. 

Nogeni-l&-Roi t June 1 is**— The cocks 
and hens have raised the flag of revo- 
lution after the speech of a Leghorn 
cock, The geese were especially en- 
thusiastic, The eggs in a hundred 
and twelve incubators were broken 
and the chicks set free. 

Mont Saint- Michel, June 24/A— The 

rebellion is spreading. 
The sheep have joined 
in. The Southdowns have 
sent a delegation from 
England. They have 
issued a manifesto end- 
ing with the watchword 
" No More Shearing ! " 

Limoges, June 25th. — A 
great meeting of the 
rebels has taken place in 
the field where the fair 
is held- The dogs, who 
had previously taken over 

/ * Original fnc 




require — hay, grain, or meat. He 
must provide us with proper housing. 
He must " 

At this point the speaker was inter- 
rupted^ — by a donkey* 

"Well," said he, " isn't that how 
tilings have always been ? /have 
always had a man-slave, who has built 
my house, who sweeps it out every 
morning, who brings me my hay 
twice a day I For my part, I am 
quite satisfied, I am prang to the 
cinema J " 

possession of their masters' 
houses, formed a majority 
of the assembly, A German 
shtep ■ dog was the chief 
speaker M Comrades," he 
said, '* never again will we 
be slaves of man ! From 
tfaia time forward he must 
give to each of us what we 

by Google 



1 64 


\ ^ 


They all went to the cinema — after having 
booed the Gorman dog. 

Paris, June yyfh.— -Calm is everywhere re- 
stored, France breathe* again. The rebeto 
have gow* back to their stables. 

'Orfginal from 


, < ■ !■! I ^II I I M 

Pictures tiat 
Set Men Thinking 


"Of ail the pictures you have seen, which do you best remember?" This 

question has been put to a number of our leading artists, with the results that 
are shown in the illustrations to this article, 


T is the fashion to-day with our superior 
art critics to decry a "subject" picture* 
The more a picture is merely colour or 
form, without meaning or idea* the more 
beautiful and artistic it is in their eyes. Yet 

if art is to be of service to mankind generally, 
it must have some relation to the actualities 
of life : it must tell a story or express an idea. 
Practically every picture which leaves a lasting 
memory does the one thing or the other. 

VoL t«i!L— ti> 

ftjf prrmUttan q/ £„ !HUi> *h< tmtr it Cu„ Ltd. 





The picture which appears on the previous page. 
" More Heavens Than One/' is the kind to 
winch we refer, quite apart from any merit as 
an artistic work. The contrast between the 
lives and ideals of the two women is so striking 
that no one who has seen it can ever forget it* 

In the cource of a chat in his beautiful garden 
at Kensington, Sir Edward Fovnter, R.A., 
offered from his well-stored recollections of the 
European galleries a veritable "embarrassment 
of riches," mentioning, with running comment 
on their characteristic features, such varied works 
as Millais* " Vale of Rest/' Leish ton's "Grnabue/' 
Watts's " Sic Transit Gloria Mundi/' Frith 's 
" Derby Day/' Herkomcr's " The Last Muster," 
Turner's w Battle of the Nile/* Gericinlt'a " The 
Raft/' Descamps' " Samson Pulling Down the 

I\ liars/' Pai:l Veronese's *' Cmcifixion p hF and 
Tintoretto's fi Resurrect ion/' It was the last- 
named picture which came into his mind p 
and, as Sir Edward remarked, any collection of 
the most striking pictures ought to include fomc 
example of the painter's presentation of the 
Jiiogt dramatic of all stories. And so it is by 
Tintoretto's " Resurrection " that the ex- Presi- 
dent of the Royal Academy is represented la this 

Comparatively few people have seen Fritel's 
picture, " The Conquerors ,r (page ioy) h jn the 
Luccrnr Gallery : hut engravings have probably 
made it familiar tc the majority of our readers. 

•'a'rrAoy^n^ he would like to 

have painted himself. " It is a fine conception/' 





he added, "finely carried out/ 1 
Some most striking subjects have 
been spoilt by bad treatment. 
But in the case of " The Con- 
querors*' a very clever idea has 
been very cleverly carried out. 
Perhaps at the close of the Great 
War this picture makes an even 
stronger appeal to our feelings 
than it did before 'the Kaiser's 
mad attempt to add his portrait 
to the group of conquerors, from 
Hannibal to Napoleon, here de- 
picted in symbolic proximity to 
the slain humanity which was the 
price of their ambition. Pierre 
Frit el, the painter of the picture, 
it may be of interest to add, wa* 
a Paris artist of the last century, 
a pupil of Millet and Ca banal. 
IJ The Conquerors " was exhibited 
at the Salon in 1879, and was 
awarded a medal, being even- 
tually purchased for the Lucerne 
Museum. No other work from 
Fritel's brush has achieved similar 

Mr. Seymour Lucas ( R.A., unlike 
Sir Edward Poynter, had not the 
slightest difficulty about his choice. 
He answered without a moment's 
hesitation— Velazquez "fj M Surrender of Breda " 
(page- 167). 

fl When T first saw an engraving of this picture 
at the house of a friend/' Mr. Lucas says, "it 

drove me to Madrid > in order that I might see 
the original at the Prado Gallery. I was then 
only a young man, but the memory of it has 
remained ineffaceable, No other picture has sc* 

Bv kind ivrminttint of tht British Art Cq ,. Lid,, w, d VrwL 



Ua pttmti in vj the Mm Aft tfoekttft Ltd,, publisher* of the eupravtnjt. 

B-i rx mit tliun [•/ Mation Ad. Ritntn. it Co 



impressed me by its combination of fine qualities 
— a fine subject finely painted, with composition, 
colour* form, as near perfection as may be/ 1 

"The Surrender of Breda " — sometimes called 
4i The Lances ,J — is believed to have been painted 
by the great Spanish artist about 1647. Breda, 
a Dutch town about thirty miles north of Ant- 
werp, was surrendered to the Spaniards, under 
Spinola, in 1625. At the moment chosen by 
tlic painter, the Dutch commander. Justing of 
Nassau, is handing the keys of the town to the 
victorious Spinola, behind whom are the serried 
ranks of the Spaniards holding their lances aloft, 

is only as a most picturesque incident that he has 
presented it on canvas. In my opinion, it is one 
of the most impressive and beaut Hut pictures 
ever painted.' * 

Unluckily, it is impossible to reproduce in 
these pages " The Hoses of Hcli ouabains." The 
picture belongs to Sir John Aird, Bart., and, 
unlike his predecessor, from whom he inherited 
it, he objects to the reproduction of any of 
his pictures in any circumstances whatever — ; 
as was explained when application was made 
to him for permission to include " The Roses of 
Hcliogabalus " in the illustration to our article. , 

Jiff l-ind p*rm.i**ii>H of the Fine Art* PM»hing Co, LtfL, I J. Gr**n -St., TT.C.f, pt*btiwhrrt vf fhe m$ravi»ff. 

whilst in the background is a vast landscape of 
the Low Country, dotted with fortifications. 
It is said that Velazquez painted the picture 
from details of the scene given to him many 
years before by Spinola himself, when they were 
fellow-travellers from Barcelona to Milan. 

Alma-Tademn's 4 * The Roses oi Heliogabalus M 
was the choice of the Hon. John Oil lien 

"The picture is really based,'* remarks Mr. 
Collier, " on a grim story of this Roman Emperor, 
who is said to have slain a number of maidens by 
smothering them with roses. But A 1 ma-Tad ema 
had always an eye for the picturesque, and it 

So, for the time being at least, this great master- 
piece of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tad ema is only for 
the private delectation r.-i Sir John Aird and his 

" In my opinion/' said Mr. J. C. Doll man, the 
painter of many well -remembered contributions 
to the Royal Academy in recent years, " it is 
very lamentable that subject -pictures should 
have fallen into such discredit, owing to the 
combined efforts of a number of writers on art 
in the Press* Their writing has had so much 
effect that comparatively few* artists have now 
the L^f^|^^r^||fiH((i^J with subjects of 



Hy land ptrmiitioii 0/ Hauton. Stem it Slorgtm, Ltd,, iVritrawJJ^|l^^i^$^trM"o/j|k.<fW9! , wl 



By kind fienriifrfgn &/ Utt forWRjfon p/ tAt City of t r nu\htti. 

wide human interest- I am one of about a 
dozen of us who have stuck to our guns, and 
continued to paint such pictures in spite of these 
critics p and I mean to po on doing so until the 
end* It is probably only a passing phase, and 
subject -pictures will come to their own again ; 
but in the meantime, we who paint them have 
to suffer to some extent from the prejudice which 
has been created against them, 

" You ask me which subject -picture T remem- 
ber best. Well, the picture which first comes 
into my mind is Frith 's ' Derby Day/ This 
picture is not thought much of to-day, and yet 
I do not hesitate to say that in my judgment 
it w T as a great achievement, equalling the work 
of some of the great Dutch masters in its pre- 
sentation of varied types of humanity. Despised 
as it may be by our fashionable critics, * The 
Derby Da> ' wi[] live as a most striking picture 
and a great work of art/' On further considera- 
tion, however, Mr. Doll man chose, not " The 
Derby Day/' but a very different work — Lord 
Lcighton's " Daphnephoria " — as " the one pic- 
ture of our modern time which makes the greatest 
appeal to me, for beauty and for grandeur of 
conception " (page 16B-9). 

This picture was painted by Lord Lei fib ton 
In 1876, when he was at the zenith of his power 

It depicts an ancient Greek festival — -" The 
Daphnephoria, " or Laurel -Bearers — -held every 
nine years at Thebes, in honour of Apollo, of 
which the central figure was a boy, chosen for 
beauty and strength, followed in procession by a 
chorus of maidens singing a hymn to the god* 

Mr* Richard Jack, A,Ri, in reply to an 
inquiry, recalled a picture he had seen during 
his student days in Paris about twenty- five years 
ago, and had not seen since* This was " The 
Buccaneer.*," by Frank Brangwyn, R,A< It was 
hung at the Salon, and was so popular— as Mr. 
Jack averred — that the carpet on the floor 
around it was quite worn by the time the 
exhibition closed* 

" The Buccaneers " was sold to a French 
gentleman, whose name and address Mr. Brangwyn 
has forgotten, and it has therefore been found 
i rnpossi ble to re prod uce it. As M r* Jac k d escri bes 
the picture, it represents a group of pirates on 
the deck of their ship, preparing for an attack 
upon a passing merchantman, the scene being 
full of brilliant, tropical sunshine. Apart from 
the vivid colouring Mr* jack said he remembered 
the picture l:r its. extraordinary power and 
vin^M-V^^ as fine a set of 

real villains as you could possibly imagine, with 



nothing of the stage buccaneers about them 
such as one would see in a Covent Garden opera. 

. Mr. Edgar Bundy, A.R.A., himself the painter 
of many striking subject-pictures, mentioned 
" The Doctor " and Gericault's " The Raft " in 
the course of conversation. We have therefore 
included " The Raft " among our illustrations. 

Of all the many shipwreck pictures that have 
been painted, Mr. Bundy considered this to be 
about the most powerful. 

Jean Gericault exhibited "The Raft" (page 169) 
at the Paris Salon of 181 9. It is recorded that at 
the Salon the picture excited so much hostile 
criticism that Gericault, in despair, left Paris, and 
settled for two years in London, where "The Raft" 
was again exhibited. In London the picture was 
received with enthusiasm. Eventually Paris 
reconsidered its first verdict, and endorsed that 
of London, the canvas being bought by the 
French nation and placed in the Louvre, where 
it now hangs. 

Sir Luke Fildes, R.A., and Mr. Frank Dicksee, 
R.A., both found it impossible to make definite 
choice of a picture, but Mr. Dudley Hardy 
plumped without reservation or qualification 
for Turner's " Victory," at Greenwich Hospital. 

Symbolism and a religious motif characterize 
a recent canvas, which, in. its engraved 
form, is proving perhapj the most striking pic- 
ture of the moment—" The Devil's Daughter " 
(page 170), by Margaret Lindsay Williams, 
exhibited at the Royal Academy in 191 7, The 
picture created something of a sensation at 
Burlington House, although there was consider- 
able division of opinion as to its real meaning. 
On this point it may be as well to allow the 
artist to speak for herself. 

Miss Lindsay Williams says : " The girl is 
suggestive of the material tendency of our time ; 
she carries in her left hand a skull symbolic 
of corruption and of the path which she has 
for the present chosen, and in her right hand 
is a fan symbolic of frivolity. Although the 
costume suggests the stage, I do not mean to 
point at the stage in any particular sense, but to 
materialism wherever it may be found. To the 
right of the picture a hand is seen holding a 
crucifix illumined and alive. The arms of the 
Christ are outstretched towards her appealingly, 
but she passes by. Although I have used a 
crucifix in the picture I do not mean it to stand 
for any particular Church : to me it is the greatest 
symbol the world has ever seen. To me it stands 

for love and sacrifice at their noblest, which 
inclu ics the best in all the Churches but also a 
great deal more." 

* " The Devil's Daughter " had a sequel in 
" The Triumph/' at the Academy, in 1918. 
This depicts the triumph of the girl's soul in 
overcoming the temptations of the flesh. 

There are, of course, many striking pictures 
which are not included in this selection. 
By most people, we suppose, Dor6 would be 
accounted a painter of some of the most striking 
pictures ever painted, and, although selection 
is difficult, " The Christian Martyrs " may, per- 
haps, be given the palm for the immediate and 
powerful impression it makes. 

In contrast with DorS's daring realism may be 
placed the vivid symbolism of another picture 
having a religious theme, " Despised and Re- 
jected of Men." by Sigisrmind Goetze (page 171). 
This may possibly be regarded as the most striking 
of several somewhat similar symbolical pictures 
produced during the last quarter of a century, 
although some people would doubtless give 
preference to the l^te Mr. Byam Shad's " Love, 
the Conqueror." 

Finally, we took the opinion of Mr. A. G. 
Temple, the Director of the Guildhall Art Gallery, 
whose knowledge of European art collections is 

In making a selection, however, Mr. Temple 
* did not think it necessary to go beyond the 
walls of the Gallery of which ior so many years 
be has had charge. 

" The Wounded Cavalier," by W. S. Burton 
(page 1 72), is one of the most popular pictures in 
the collection of the Corporation of the City of 
London. " It is a picture," says Mr. Temple, " of 
the most striking power, as is shown, perhaps, by 
the circumstances in which it was exhibited at 
the Royal Academy. Through some mischance, 
it was minus the usual descriptive label when 
brought before the Hanging Committee. No one 
knew the title of the picture, or the name of the 
painter. Nevertheless, the Committee were so 
impressed by the work that they resolved to 
accept it. It was given a number, and was 
included in the catalogue under this number, 
without name or description. Of course, when 
the Academj was opened, Burton came forward 
and claimed his picture." 

As an artist, W. S. Burton may be compared 
with "single-speech Hamilton." Not only did 
he never repeat the popular success achieved 
with " The Wounded Cavalier/' but it is prac- 
tically the only work from his brush which has 
won any recognition whatever. 

Original from 

]HB Sieur de Bonnefois rode home- 
ward in his coach and six toward 
the close o! day. Over his fea- 
tures, genial for all they were 
proud, but especially about his 
shrewd and fearless blue -grey 
eyes, played a contented smile — 
as why should it not ? The Sieur 
de Bonnefois was a handsome man. He might 
have been one or two and thirty. His neighbours 
greatly esteemed him for his probity and good 
sense. The income from his estates ran to 
one hundred thousand francs a year, and his 
personal property was estimated at well over 
a million. 

Such a man has no excuse for imhappiness. 
He entertained, not lavishly, but in exquisite 
taste. His horses and dogs were many ; and 
his friends owed him much for the capital sport 
which he freely offered them in hunting over his 
large preserves, A more frivolous young man 
might have been spoiled by the attentions of 
women ; but the Sieur de Bonne fo is preferred 
the quiet country to the G>urt, and often con- 
gratulated himself on a freedom which no 
feminine spell had ever been able to violate* 

This day, moreover, the Sieur de Bonnefois 
had special cause for contentment. The fair at 
the near-by town of FeVi court had been blessed 
by gorgeous weather", and the Sieur de Bonnefois. 
who very ably managed his own affairs, had 
disposed of his wheat and cattle for very much 
more than the twenty thousand francs they 
brought him annually at the market. His 

Copyright, 131ft 


"{Burton Kline ~ 

Illustrated &y Leo Botes 

lumbering coach, with the merry scenes from 
Wattcau painted on its panels h fetched with every 
lurch the jingle of golden coins from the fat 
leathern bag that lay between his feet. One 
circumstance alone had troubled an otherwise 
perfect day for the Sieur de Bonnefois. 

At the fair his friend and neighbour, Monsieur 
Connard, pausing in the middle of a bargain 
over a dozen fat Holhmdish cows, had dropped a 
bit of news, " Have you recently heard from 
your nephew, Monsieur dc Bonnefois ? " 

" You mean the Comte de Bray ? ' * The Sieur 
de Bonnefois sighed and shook his head. M No, 
my friend. And, alas, in his ease no news has 
come to be doubly good news. But why do you 
ask ? Has he gone from worse to worst ? J< 

" My friend, I hope you will take this in good 
part. But I have good reason to urge you to be 
on your guard against that young man/' 

' Again ? Have you yourself, then, had 
news ? " 

M Be content to take my advice, monsieur, if 
you please. You yourself are still ^oung. You 
have no other heir. The count is wild. And he 
grows impatient. I have heard from Paris, it is 
true, and of his wild ways there. His name has 
even been coupled with the poisoning of the 
Princess Henriette." 

"So I had heard" Again the Sieur de 
Bonnefois shook his head, " And he was so fine, 
so sweet , as a boy I *' 

" I also N 11 ieri o:E his threats against vou, 

by Hurt on Kline. 


x 75 

Nevertheless, be sure that shrewd eye of yours 
is always alert." 

" I see. My nephew cannot wait for my 
death ?" 

" Monsieur, these are violent times. Be on 
your guard. I have spoken." And the bargain- 
ing had gone forward without further interrup- 

This incident returned to De Bonnefois' mind 
as he rode on homeward. Perhaps he thought 
of it because the gathering dusk gave point to 
Monsieur Connard's advice and to his timely 
warning of the menacing turbulence of the 

14 Poor Charles ! " De Bonnefois thought. 
" So handsome, so generous, and so violent ! 
The ladies spoil him. Where will his wild ways 
lead him ? Perhaps " — the Sieur de Bonnefois 
lifted his eyes in deeper thought — ■" perhaps I 
ought to take him with me, and exercise what 
restraint I may. But, no ; the woods of Berri 
would drive him to distraction with ennui. He 
must go his ways. As for his threats against 
me " — De Bonnefois laughed lightly—" I think 
he will find it wise to wait. He will find my, 
promise is good. But sometimes I wish " 

There his ruminations were cut short by a 
sharp cry from one of his postilions. The coach 
came to a halt with a suddenness that sent the 
Sieur de Bonnefois from his seat. And among 
the horses ahead he heard wild scuffling of feet 
and finally a groan. 

Hastening forward he quickly learned from 
the remaining postilion what had occurred. The 
off -horse of the forward pair had slipped aside 
in fright and fallen, taking with him the postilion, 
who sat astride. The poor fellow they quickly 
dragged to the roadside, where it was found that 
bis thigh was broken. The horse himself was in 
dire distress with broken bones. 

14 He took fright of something, sire," the 
flunkey could only explain. 

" Did you see anything — anybody ? " 

" No, sire. But I think it was something in 
yon woods." 

" H'm ! " was De Bonnefois' only comment. 

An injured horse they could easily have left 
by the wayside, to be cared for afterward. A 
sorely injured man was more of a problem. As 
a measure of precaution De Bonnefois walked 
back to his coach for his pistols, while he should 
decide what to do. At length he gave orders to 
the rider who remained unhurt to free and mount 
o*ie of the nags and ride back to F6ricourt for a 
chirurgeon. Yet even before the horse could be 
unhitched came the sound of hoofs on the road 
some distance behind them. So hard was the 
gallop that De Bonnefois had scarcely looked 
to his pistols when the rider was upon him. 

" Ah I Monsieur de Bonnefois ! " the rider 
cried. " Has something befallen ? " 

In the new-comer De Bonnefois recognized a 
priest of the neighbourhood, for so the fellow had 
always called himself, whom he had encountered 
at the fair in a condition not altogether consistent 
with his pious pretensions. 

14 Yes, my dear' abbe\" De Bonnefois said, 
much relieved, in spite of his ancient suspicions 

of the fellow. " An accident has occurred to 
one of my horses, and one of my men is hurt." 

" Is it serious ? My house is not much farther 
along. Let me help you there. Perhaps now 
you will consent to partake of my hospitality 
after all ! " The self-styled priest laughed* out 
the sarcasm, recalling, perhaps, as De Bonnefois 
certainly did, his jovial invitation at the., fair 
Monsieur de Bonnefois had declined as politely 
as he could, considering the repugnance and 
suspicion he felt toward the pretended man of 

While they paused to parley the night had 
come well upon them, and De Bonnefois yielded 
to the conviction that there was nothing for it 
except to accept the priestly one's invitation. 
Accordingly the eager host rode on to summon 
a man who should stay by the injured postilion 
till better help should come. 

In a few minutes he returned, bringing a 
lantern, in the light of which they were able to 
straighten the tangled gear and drive the four 
remaining horses to the coach into the abbess 

The. Sieur de Bonnefois had often passed this 
place, and he now took note of it with some 
curiosity. The parsonage was an ancient build- 
ing, ail that was left of a very elegant seigniorial 
mansion raised, it was said, as long ago as tte 

Besides the " priest's " dwelling only the castle 
chapel remained, and now did service as the parish 
church. What had once been an elaborate 
garden was become a burial ground, and the 
moat was simply a ditch filled with water and 
crossed by a bridge which gave entrance to the 
abbess abode. Round about, the great park, 
once encircling the ancient pile, had been left 
to grow untouched, so that it had become a 
tangled forest. 

" Enter, my honoured guest," the abb6 said 
as he led the way across the bridge and swung 
open his door. " Antoinette I " he called, 
roughly ; whereat a young girl approached from 
a dimly-lighted corner of the room into the some- 
what brighter glow from the abbess lantern. 
" I have with me the Sieur de Bonnefois, our 
good neighbour, who has met with a mishap. 
One of his horses is killed and a man injured. 
Monsieur de Bonnefois will do us the honour 
to pass the night here. Be lively with your 

The girl Antoinette curtsied deeply, a comely 
maid of one -and -twenty perhaps, very dark, her 
lips sweet, but her eyes as timid as they were 
lustrous, and she had the manner of being 
immensely tired. Even in the light of the lantern 
De Bonnefois was able to observe that she changed 
colour at his host's words. 

" Be not too light with her, my good friend," 
the self-appointed abbe* laughed out, in his 
coarse manner. " She has torn the heart of more 
than one beau in the village yonder. And now, 
pray, excuse your host. I must see that my 
modest dwelling is fit for your entertain me rrt. 
Julie ! Jean I " they heard him call to his servants 
as he passed out of the room and down a dark 



For a .moment De Bonnefois and the girl 
Antoinette surveyed each other with lively 
interest. " Will you be seated, monsieur ? ' she 
said, in a low voice, and motioned her distin- 
guished guest to a carved arm-chair standing by. 

" Thanks, mademoiselle. I will say it has 
shaken me to lose so good a horse. And I shall 
be eager to-morrow to learn what state my poor 
Jacques is in." And in answer to polite inquiry 
he described what had occurred, not without 
notice of Antoinette's very genuine concern. 
Indeed, De Bonnefois was quite taken with the 
pretty alarm she displayed. " You must be 
lonely here, mademoiselle," he said ; for the 
girl appeared to be disinclined toward the lead in 

" It is lonely sometimes, monsieur." 

" Do you never go out ? Pardon me, but I 
cannot remember to have had the pleasure of 
seeing you before." 

" It is quite likely, monsieur. I am very much 
at home." And De Bonnefois glanced at her 
sharply, because of the odd note in her voice. 

" Ah, so you 'have the care of the place ? " 
He was wondering what could be the relation- 
ship of such a girl to the coarse master of the 

But she quickly supplied it, perhaps guesing 
at his conjecture. " Yes, monsieur ; my uncle 
has given me the care of the place." 

Again De Bonnefois looked sharply, at the 
tone of her speech. " I am sorry you find. the 
duty so heavy," he said, and would have ventured 
further polite inquiry but that a maidservant 
entered with a candle, and the abb£ followed her 
into the room. 

11 Julie has just told me I am wanted at the 
bedside of a sick man, monsieur," he explained 
in his loud voice. " I trust you will excuse me ? 
I will cut my absence as short as the occasion will 

" Very good, my dear abbe." 

" Who is it, uncle ? " 

Ordinarily the man in clerical garb would have 
answered : " None of your business, hussy ! " 
With De Bonnefois present he was obliged to be 
more decorous. " Big Peter, the cobbler," he 
mumbled hurriedly. 

" But I thought I saw him pass only a little 
while ago," the girl observed, dryly. It was 
clear that, however browbeaten by her uncle, 
she was not quite cowed. 

Her uncle was furious at the unexpected thrust, 
and but for De Bonnefois* presence would have 
burst upon her angrily, but he restrained himself 
and said : " It is a sudden seizure. Julie has 
just told me." 

" I beg your pardon," the girl said, simply. 

" And so you must entertain Monsieur de 
Bonnefois without me, Antoinette," her uncle 
said, in parting, but with a meaningful smile. 

It was so clear that he was lying, De Bonnefois 
would have wished even more that he had 
followed his own counsel and taken his frightened 
horses home, but a curiosity to know more of this 
girl and her lot made him stay. It might be, he 
took thought, that he could aid her. 

Under this fresh embarrassment, however, 

Antoinette displayed an even readier acceptance 
of silence. To cover her confusion she stepped 
to a cupboard and took from it some lacework 
upon which she was engaged. The Sieur de 
Btonnefois took the liberty of stirring about the 
room and politely studying the objects of interest 
it contained. By then the moon had risen and 
cast its rays across the landscape which De 
Bonnefois so much admired, so that he was 
impelled to visit a window and gaze out over the 

To his utter astonishment he saw the pretended 
abbe at no great distance, walking to and fro in 
the shadows, in company with two other men 
with whom he was in animated conversation. 
As the trio approached a bit nearer in their walk, 
De Bonnefois was even more astonished to 
recognize one of the men as his nephew. The 
third man, as he now watched them narrowly, 
drew from his pocket three knives. One of them 
he presented to the abbe, the second to the 
nephew, and the third he restored to the breast 
of his tunic. Turning from this astounding 
scene De Bonnefois was reassured to mark the 
, girl Antoinette still unconcernedly engaged upon 
her embroidery. 

While seeking to appear unconcerned himself, 
his eye happened to fall upon a mirror, and in it 
he caught a swift glance from the girl, directed at 
him. As plainly as words could have spoken, it 
said : " You are in peril. Why did you come ? 
Watch me closely and I may yet save you." 
And a smile supplied the period. 

" What a beautiful moon ! " De Bonnefois 
dryly remarked, perhaps to deceive theJingering 
maidservant. But, moving close to Antoinette, 
he said in a low voice : "I hope, mademoiselle, 
I do not subject you also to danger ? " 

At this instinctive gallantry of a gentleman the 
girl blushed most handsomely. " Monsieur, I 
thank you/* she whispered, hurriedly. " But 
perhaps you may be the means of saving me, as I 
of saving you. Fortunately Jean " 

She was not able to finish, for at that juncture 
the abb£ re-entered the room. 

Well, monsieur, you see I was not so long 
after all. But I have a favour to ask of you. 
On my way to see Big Peter I encountered my 
friend Monsieur Jainnes, from Bruges, who was 
at the lair to-day. With your permission, 
monsieur, I have asked him also to be a guest to 
dinner with us. He will be here shortly. I 
hope, Antoinette, he does not keep us waiting." 

Scarcely had the abb£ said this when the 
barking of a dog gave token of the arrival of this 
second visitor, and in a moment more that 
worthy entered. De Bonnefois instantly recog- 
nized him as the agent who had distributed the 
knives. The appearance of the man naturally 
convinced De Bonnefois that he was caught in a 
trap. There was likely to be a bit of sword-play 
in the course of the evening, or perhaps a little 
shooting, to the discomfiture of Mademoiselle 

As the supper hour approached, the abb£ 
cordially offered his principal guest the privilege 
of retiring to his room and removing the stains 
of travel. This De Bonneiois readily accepted, 




tine* it offered opportunity for the hiding of his 
money and a minute to sec to his pistols, although 
h* was quite content with the blade at his side, 
-•1 the use of which he was not without reputation. 
On leaving the hall he had passed closely 
Plough to Antoinette to receive from her a 
quick sign to bolt his door and to expect further 
^port from her. On finishing the examination 
af his pistols* De Bonnefois therefore thought it 

best to sit down for a while in his room, and await 
what plan she might show. While he was sitting 
thus a slight noise above his head drew his 
attention- Instinctively reaching for his rapier, 
he glanced up to the ceiling in time to see a small 
trap-door open. A slim and graceful hand, as 
white as milk, was iTin^t through it, and a paper 
dropped a|k ihi^foe(bT-yOi!ri^ jiT^JBeniiefois read : — ■ 
94 My untie' fe h tKJ 'pHelnVMrt r a l 'i , obber . He and 


i 7 8 


his men -mean to kill you for your money. At 
supper they will offer you drugged wine. This 
will throw you into a deep sleep, when the knives 
will finish you. Jean, the gardener, is an honest 
young man. He will help to save you and myself 
at the same time. He, too, wishes to escape from 
here. Under no circumstances give sign that 
you are suspicious. They will not strike till 
you are asleep. Return to your room on some 
pretext, bolt the door again and wait for us. 
Do not be alarmed if we enter in an unusual 
manner. Be careful to burn this note in the 

The note was unsigned, but it needed no 
signature. And De Bonnefois was surprised to 
find himself, proud scorner of the fair sex, 
fervently kissing this brave slip of paper ! i 

Such was the merit of its teaching that, when 
he descended, none could have noted in his 
manner the slightest trace of his knowledge of 
the conspiracy against him. His money and his 
piste-Is both he had disdainfully left behind him 
in his room. At the supper table he found 
Antoinette as gay now as she had been reserved' 
before, and he was soon swept into the same mood 
by rjer brave sallies. 

The repast proved to be of an excellent savour. 
Frorn the beginning the abbg and his other guest 
freely drank, and encouraged De Bonnefois to 
follow their example. But De Bonnefois was 
quite his elegant self. A sign from Antoinette, a 
turn of her soft blue eyes, had served to indicate 
to him which was the bottle of drugged claret, 
and he carefully avoided it, for all the abbe's 
skill in placing it in his way. Nevertheless, he 
affected to be somewhat touched by his liquor, 
and jasked leave of his host, as soon as it seemed 
plausible, to retire. Inasmuch as it was now 
bearing toward twelve, and as De Bonnefois 
had accepted two glasses of the mischievous 
wine — which he managed to spill under the 
table — the permission was granted and the party 
at supper broke up. 

On returning to his room, De Bonnefois 
bethought him to bolt his door, as prudently 
counselled to do by his fair saviour, but the bolts 
had been removed in his absence. So also was 
the key gone from the lock, and nothing remained 
except the latch. All he could do by way of 
protection was to move a heavy chest against the 
door. He then looked to his pistols, and to his 
great amazement found that the charges had 
been removed. 

Barely had he made this discovery when a 
noise beside his bed put him on the alert. With 
hand on rapier he moved cautiously to the spot. 
While he watched, a portrait on the wall moved 
to one side, disclosing a panel. This, too, was 
slid aside, and in the opening stood Antoinette, 
and behind her Jean, each with a dark lantern. 

They gave him small time to marvel at these 
contrivances, relics of a day even more turbulent 
still. Motioning in silence to De Bonnefois to 
climb through after her, Antoinette held forth a 
hand to assist him. Even as she did so the latch 
on the door behind De Bonnefois was slowly 
lifted. The abbe and his guest had not been 
slow in their pursuit. 

De Bonnefois at once refused to heed the 
frantic signals of Antoinette, imploring him to 
hasten his flight with her. As frantically as she 
he motioned to her instead to fly before the 
discovery of her might bring vengeance on her 
head. His purpose was to stay behind and 
dispatch the villains as they entered. To retire 
from peril had never been his habit, and stay he 
would, but that Antoinette, behind his back 
now, clambered through the open panel and 
caught his sleeve. 

" Come ! " she said, in a whipser. The rest 
she could only gesture ;. but as plainly as words 
the swift uplift of her arms said : " For my sake, 
then, if not for yours ! " 

Meanwhile' heavy breathing and the scraping 
of feet on the other side of the oaken door be- 
tokened the clumsy efforts of the drunken 
brigands to push aside the laden chest which 
Dc Bonnefois had now mounted to hold it in 

It happened that Antoinette had employed 
the only argument with any potency for De 
Bonnefois. In answer to her appeal he tip-toed 
back with her to the panel, handed her through 
it and followed. In noiseless haste the girl 
slid back the cover and locked it, and moved 
the portrait into place. Even as she did so 
they heard the creaking of the door, the scrape 
of the chest across the floor, and the sprawling 
tumble of two heavy forms into the room. 

Through the inky darkness of a long, winding 
passage De Bonnefois suffered himself to be led, 
with Jean in front, and Antoinette behind him 
with a lantern. By the continued descent of the 
passage, with frequent short flights of steps, De 
Bonnefois knew that he was being conducted, 
towards the last, underground. At length, when 
they had reached a tiny gallery, provided with 
a seat by some former harried tenant of the 
place, Antoinette ordered a halt. 

41 We must rest, 1 ' she said, breathlessly, and 
ended with a laugh, " and do our best to think." 

11 Mademoiselle," De Bonnefois said, as he 
seated himself beside her, " this is curious 
business for me. But so long as it is your com- 
mand " — he smiled in token of obedience. 
" Nevertheless, if you will pardon me, I firmly 
believe you are making an excuse of your own 
peril to make sure of my escape." 

The lively flush that came to her cheeks with 
his words was probably lost in the niggardly 
light of the lantern, but the pretty tremor in 
her voice took its place, as she hastened to 
reply : " No, my dear Monsieur de Bonnefois, 
I fear I am making an ignoble use of you. But, 
truly, you would have been helpless against 
the odds. My uncle is sure to have gathered 
his whole band by now." 

" My nephew among them, I suppose ? " 
De Bonnefois started up. His wishes, at that 
thought, were all for going back. 

Yet again Antoinette laid her hand on his 
arm. " Surely," she said, " you will find occa- 
tion for dealing with him at another time. 
Meanwhile" — sha, ftpffo- .now rose from her brief 
rest — " we are not safe here. My uncle will 
knew iiovr we have cjtac txrA will follow at once." 


j 79 





The girl lowered her head as she added : "I 
fear you will have another fault to forgive iu 
me, Monsieur de Bonnefois/' 

*" Mademoiselle/' he laughed. " it is forgiven 
at once. Still t you might, if you would* tell me 
what it to." 

" Your neighbours, monsieur, have given you 
a very high name as a prudent man, but I fear 
you have been caught in a lapse. You would 
have left behind just what they wan ted —all 
your money — -as the price of my freedom 

M And a beggarly price to pay for it ! " came 
his prompt interruption. 

Here the Sieur de Bonnefois made the dis- 
covery that Mademoiselle Antoinette was some- 
thing other than the &ad -faced, weary-eyed slip 
of a girl he had met on his entrance to her uncle's 
house. Her head now came up with a merry 
toss, and even in the dim light of the lantern he 
caught the humorous twinkle in her eye + " You 
didn't observe that I left some of it scattered 
behind,** she said, demurely. " They are pro- 
bably pausing to quarrel over it now, and per- 
haps reducing their numbers. The rest of it I 
intrusted to Jean/' The head was lowered 
again, and Antoinette began busily to fumble 
with her hands in much confusion. " I fear it 
was done, in every sense, monsieur, behind your 

The Sieur de Bonnefois laid his hand on his 
heart and swept her a profound obeisance* For 
a moment a shrewd smile played about his 
handsome features. Then he startled Antoinette 
with the seriousness of his answer. fC I only 
hope, mademoiselle, 1 * he said, with a ring in hi 
voice, " that your pains over my beggarly money 

will not have cost you a t. ingle extra moment 
of danger. Come I " he ended, taking abrupt 
command of the expedition, which had suddenly 
taken on in his eyes something better than a 
gallant escapade. " I owe something to one 
who has risked so much for me. Let us on." 

As before, they made their way along the 
passage J Ityft' [*f^TT*'Ot^Wttf J^|rtj ^fifasionaJ stair, 
and presently they found themselves in the equi.1 



" That,, made mo is die, would be fatal, I have 
other plans, if you please* With monsieur's 
permission, I have hidden his gold in a safe spot. 
We need to be fleet of loot and to have no 
burdens. Be so good as to follow me/' 

Leaving the lanterns behind them, they set 
out along a scarcely perceptible path through 
the tangled undergrowth, with Jean in the lead- 
After him De Bonnefois walked, keeping one 
hand, for guidance, on the gardener's shoulder, 
and happy in the fortunate opportunity of 
holding in the other, equally for guidance, the 
slim hand of Antoinette, Is it to be wondered 
at that he gave it an occasional pressure of 
assurance ? 

In this way they proceeded for perhaps half 
a mile, until suddenly the soft whinny of a 
horse brought them to a pause* As suddenly 
De Bonneiois detached a hand —the hand on 
Jean's shoulder, needless to say ! — to reach for 
his steeL 

" It is one of your own, monsieur," the gar- 
dener explained, with a little laugh. M I took 
the liberty of saddling two for our own use- We 
shall find them under the large oak directly 
before us/' 

r Aye, but you shall not. my fine birds 1 " 

The words rang out with a coarse laugh behind 

them, and a dark figure leaped from a snarled 

depth of shrubs into the narrow path before 


Instantly a pistol-shot broke the night's 

stillness, and the faithful Jean reeled and 

fell, with a muffled exclamation of pain. 

But the jewelled sword of De Bonnefois 

leaped from its sheath as he sprang with 

it over the body of Jean* For a few 

moments the quietude about was disturbed 

by the sing of steel and the thrashing 

of branches, the while their assailant 

wildly brandished his knife in the 

dark. Then the turmoil ended as 

abruptly as it had begun, in a groan 

and with the thud of another falling 


Almost with the sound of it, 

De Bonnefois was back at 

Antoinette's side. ft Is there 

another ? JJ he said, " Press 

back into the shrubbery till 

1 am look about/" 

In the distance they heard 
■a long halloa. 

" I caught him in the 

vitals/* De Bonnefois 

said, " but the scoundrel 

has given the alarm. 

What of Jean ? " 

" What of you ? " 
Antoinette asked. 

' ' He never scathed 
me- But you — we 
must get you out of 
this at lightning 
speed. How about 

TO BE LED, WITH JEAN IN FKONT, AND ANTOINETT^ 1 1^ £ p^pT'^lp^ fflfPHI'j fllPP*** beside the 

a lantern." "Mien gardener. 

blackness of the outer night. The moon, as 
Jean remarked with satisfaction, was hidden 
behind a dense bank of cloud, as if in connivance 
at their escape. 

With the passing centuries Nature had com- 
pleted what artifice had begun in the conceal- 
ment of the exit to this secret tunnel. The 
bushes which originally cloaked it had become 
tall trees rising from a dense thicket. 

So De Bonnefois was moved to exclaim at the 
maze : " You cant mean there's a way out of 
this darkness ! " 

" Dark as the place la, monsieur," the girl an- 
swered, " it is darker still with my uncle's deeds/' 

' h PiThaps we had better bring that uncle of 
yours to account," De Bonnefois countered, 

" It is time, monsieur. But hark ! 9 * 

Jean, this while, had stepped cautiously away 
into the thicket, to reconnoitre. 

For a moment Antoinette listened eagerly, 
while De Bonnefois 
felt for his sword. 
" Ah, it Is Jean return- 
ing," the girl breathed, 
with a sigh of relief, 

" They arc still roar- 
ing, back at the par- 
sonage, " the young gar- 
dener reported. " But 
I am sure we shall 
have them upon us, 
mademoiselle, at any 
moment. They have 
horses and they sus- 
pect where we are." 

** Had we better 
hide here, my 
good Jean ? ,J 



But Jean was already rising, ruefully rub- 
bing his head. M He scratched my cheek, the 
beggar ! But I think he startled me more than 
anything else." 

" Are you with us ? " De Bonnefois was already 
hurrying Antoinette before him. With a quick 
toss he hoisted the slender girl over the body of 
the fallen man. " Monsieur Jainnes, if I am not 
mistaken," De Bonnefois commented, grimly ; 
" the gentleman who deals in knives. Hurry, 
my good Jean I " 

" Straight ahead, monsieur ; I am coming." 

The long halloa at the parsonage, a mile away, 
was answered now by a perfect chorus oi hoarse 
cries, which seemed to come from widely separate 
points. Some of them were near. After the 
cries came a clatter of hoofs and the shouts of a 
confident pursuit. 

" The blackguards ! " De Bonnefois growled. 
" To think there l>e fellow-beings willing to stab 
in the dark ! On, Jean. Take the lead. We 

It was the work of a moment to untether the 
two snorting nags, quivering with excitement. 

" Off you go, man ! " De Bonnefois gave a 
hoist to Jean and a slap to his horse. In a 
twinkling he himself was astride the other. 
With an arm about Antoinette, he whisked her 
up behind him, and they were away in the wake 
of Jean. " Whither away, man ? " 

" Follow closely," came the answer. " And 
be ready for a leap." 

For a, good hundred yards they crashed 
through the growth ; then suddenly the horse 
ridden by Jean disappeared into a hole. Close 
after him, De Bonnefois felt his own nag sink 
under him, and then land with a jolt that almost 
shook the soft embrace of Antoinette's arms 
about him. 

" It's the sunken road," she said, a little 
breathlessly. " I should have warned you." 

" No matter. The sound of your voice is 
always apt, Antoinette." 

" Follow Jean," she adjured him, but aware, 
nevertheless, that he had made use of her name. 

Free of the shrubbery now, they made little 
sound except the faint thud of their horses' hoofs 
in the soft turf of the unused road, and Jean set 
the pace at a smart gallop. 

" How long a ride is it ? " 

" Perhaps an hour — unless we are stopped. 
But Jean has told me his plans. You will do 
well not to take your eye from him." 

At the end of ten minutes the young gar- 
dener signalled for a halt in order to listen. As 
nothing was audible except the heavy breathing 
of the horses, they set on again, although now 
Jean brought them to a halt more frequently. 

The fourth time that he fetched them up, 
after listening well he motioned De Bonnefois 
to step his horse beside him. " Do you hear 
that ? " he asked. 

" I think it's an owl." 

" It is a signal, monsieur. They have guessed 
our direction, have raced down the road to 
Fericourt, and have cut in behind us." 

Motioning again to De Bonnefois to follow, 
the gardener now cautiously started on, searching 

VoL lviiL-12. 

the trees for an opening Presently he found 
one to his liking and forced his horse into it, 
with De Bonnefois close in the rear. 

" Keep very still," commanded Jean. " And 
let us pray the horses make no quick start. Do 
you hear it ? " 

All three of them heard the stealthy trot of a 
horse on the soft turf of the sunken road some 
distance back along the very route they had 

" Get down," the gardener ordered, and all 
three dismounted. 

He tethered the horses to a bush, and made 
the girl and De Bonnefois crouch down with him 
at some distance away in the thickest of the 

' Even if they hear the horses, they may still 
not find us," Jean remarked. 

Silently they waited. In a few moments the 
shadowy figure of a man on a panting animal 
stole past along the sunken road at a quiet trot. 
They saw his figure silhouetted against the 
openings in the trees. A few yards beyond he 
slowed down to a walk. Then he stopped still. 
A moment more and they heard the low hoot- 
ing of an owl. A second later came an answer- 
ing hoot, from a point to their left as they faced 

For a space, short in fact but long in seeming, 
they waited in breathless silence. Then the 
horse trotted on. 

" Good boys ! " whispered Jean of the horses. 
" 1 feared a whinny in answer to that scoundrel's 
nag. But they never breathed. You heard, 
however ? The owls ? They have now got on 
ahead of us. Either they will return, discouraged, 
or we must crawl away from here on our hands and 
knees until it is safe to make a run for it. 1 dread 
the daylight. Hist 1 " The gardener checked 

" It* was the barking of a fox," De Bonnefois 

" A signal, monsieur." 

Again they held their breath. The woods 
themselves kept the silence of death in that 
slightly less inky darkness of a night when the 
old moon is hidden behind a veil of clouds. 

" What do you hear ? " De Bonnefois whis- 

" Voices. Listen. If the horses should snort ! " 

Two more ghostly figures stole along the sunken 
road, their heads threading the web of leafage 
a hundred or two hundred yards away. Their 
talk was loud, but too distant for De Bonnefois 
to distinguish what they said. 

" It means a night of it, monsieur," whispered 

" Will you mind," De Bonnefois turned and 
whispered, and breathed the name now quite 
consciously, " Antoinette ? " 

" Mind ? " she answered. "I do not know 
what may lie before us, monsieur ; I do not ask. 
It will be better than the past — with uncle ! " 

" Can it be better here -" 

" Better here than — =-£ 

" Better here— with me ? M 

Brave enough in deed, Mademoiselle Antoinette 
was not so hardy in words ; but she let De 



Bonnefois press her hand in sign of his having 
guessed her thought. 

So for well above an hour longer they 
waited for some token of the cut - throat 

De Bonnefois was silent, but not for long. 
" I forget. I have another dread." He whis- 
pered it in Antoinette's ear. " The end of 
to-night ! I'm of use to you now. But after 
to-night — what of mc then ? " 

" If there is an ' after to-night * ! For me, 
what matter ? But for you, monsieur ? " 

" f Monsieur ' 1 My name is Julien. Do you 
like it ? " 

" 'Julien de Bonnefois/ " Antoinette slowly 
tested the syllables. " But to think that I may 
be the means, perhaps, of bringing that name to 
an end ! " 

" It will end, anyway. Unless, Antoinette " 

" Monsieur, if you please," the taciturn 
gardener again cut in. Again they listened in- 
tently, but there was no sound. " I was 
mistaken," Jean said, simply. 

" Ah, well," De Bonnefois resumed his low 
whisper to Antoinette. " Suppose the name does 
end to-night. I should have only one more 
regret. Shall I tell you ? It is because I should 
not have given my name before giving my life, 
Antoinette — ■ — •' ' 

She quickly brushed her hand across his lips 
and pointed to Jean. 

" You mean " 

She nodded, and whispered very quietly 
indeed : " Isn't it plain why he is doing this ? " 

" He loves you ? " 

11 He has never spoken, but I know." 

" And you " 

The pretty head was shaken so that the dark 
tresses whispered a " No " of their own against 
De Bonnefois' cheek. " But " — the lips now 
whispered for themselves — " you must noj speak 
so where he can hear." 

De Bonnefois caught up her hand to kiss it, in 
celebration of so sweet an exhibition of her 
character. " He dropped the "hand as suddenly 
as he had seized it. For a loud snort had burst 
from one of the horses, and both animals had 
taken to tearing furiously at their tethers in 
fright. And instantly, all about them, the woods 
took on a strange life, with the barking of distant 
foxes first and then with muffled human calls and 
orders. Jean leaped to his feet, De Bonnefois 
quickly following. 

For a second they heard the young gardener's 
rapid breathing ; then he spoke in a low and 
tense voice : " Mademoiselle," he said — and 
what instinct was it made him address, at that 
supreme moment for him, the girl and not the 
man ? — " there is only one way out. I will take 
one of the horses and make all the noise I can. 
They will follow me, thinking it is all of us 
together. The moment you think it is safe, 
monsieur, you will steal away on foot through 
the wood, after cutting loose the other horse. 
He, too, will make noise to confuse them. Go 
straight then to the left. Monsieur's estate is 
in that direction, perhaps three miles away. 
Keep silence and you may succeed. May God 

bless you, mademoiselle 1 " Jean turned toward 
the horses. 

But De Bonnefois caught his sleeve. " Slay, 
Jean ! It is I who go. Thanks for the plan." 

" Monsieur, there is not a moment. I could 
not defend her as you will." And he tore away. 

Already sounds of approach were audible. 
While De Bonnefois did his best to quiet one 
horse, the gardener mounted the other and set 
off, and they heard him coursing through the 
rough growth with shouts and cries as he sped 
away, drawing after him, precisely as he had 
guessed, the full pack of robbers, themselves in 
full cry, 

" It is certain death," Antoinette was saying 
to herself. " They are too many and too fast. 
He will never get away. Brave Jean ! " 

Antoinette had crept to where De Bonnefois 
stood and now rose ready for his protecting 
arm. Her eyes, when he kissed them, were 
brimming. Neither spoke. It was needless. 
Each knew that a being, humble but a man, had 
given them to each other. 

" Antoinette," De Bonnefois said simply, 
when they were both better under control, " we 
have all the rest ot our lives for words. Now it 
is time to act." 

" Hark, Julien 1 " she whispered, quickly. 
11 I heard something stir." 

They held still, but all was quiet about them 
now. Only the leaves made murmur in the first 
breaths of a light breeze that now bore away 
the last faint echoes of Jean's bold sally. 

" It was the wind you heard," he assured her. 
•* It always springs up at dawn." 

"Dawn? It truly has grown lighter. Will 
that help us, or hinder ? " 

" By light of day I can handle the cowards. 
Come, Antoinette. We must not hold cheaply 
what Jean has given at a high price. We must 
follow his plan without delay." And he began 
to fumble with the horse's tether. 

•' But, Julien," the girl spoke up, "if we are 
to steal away, shall we not leave the horse where 
he is ? If you release him he will be sure to 
follow you and draw them after us." 

" That is not the first shrewd word I have 
heard from your lips, my dear. Let us start." 

" And hurry ! It grows much lighter. They 
will be able to see us." 

" Ah, but then I can also see you 1 " 

His gallantry was about to receive its reward 
with Antoinette's first kiss. Her lips framed 
instead a silent " Oh ! " and all she could do was 
to point with a trembling finger. 

At the spot she indicated over his shoulder 
De Bonnefois descried the figure of a man, just 
emerged from his hiding place behind a tree. 

Now, oa seeing himself discovered, the man 
broke into a hard, low laugh. " So, my dear 
uncle ! " a mocking voice said. " My pious 
uncle 1 And this is where you pass your nights ? 
In devotion to the vestals of the wood ! " And 
again came the hard, low laugh. 

11 While you spend yours in the company of 
thieves and cutthroats!" the retort leaped, to 
De Bonnefois' lips as he recognized the voice 
of hii> neph^'Y we MICHIGAN £° me here, and 



pray forgiveness for your insult to this young 

" Or, perhaps, take the wench under my own 
protection ? Along with a bit of your claret ? " 

Whipping out his steel De Bonnefois made 
ready to meet the other's impending rush. 
" Leave, Antoinette ! Fly 1 Hide yourself 1 " 
he commanded. " This cur will bark for his 
crew in a moment." 

" Have no fear of that, my pious uncle. I 
purposely sent the clowns off after your clever 
knave of a guide, to give him a lacing for his 
pains ; and to give you a lacing myself at my 
leisure — for the foul words you have spoken 
against me now and before. I have had report 
of them in Paris, Monsieur de Bonnefois." 

" A lie ! What I have to say about you I say 
to you. And I pronounce you a man between 
whom and honour there is no acquaintance." 

" Being a prudent man " — De Bray took no 
notice of the taunt — " you perhaps wish to 
wait for the daylight ? I have just heard you 
speak in praise of it." 

" Be done with words, my noble eavesdropper. 
Come on I " 

" The time will wait, I thank you." With 
coo] insolence De Bray stepped nearer and began 
to doff his leathern hunting jacket, spotting the 
black-green woodland background, as he did so, 
with the white of his silken shirt. " Be not a 
madman, Julien. I have no wish to be a 
murderer." He so counselled De Bonnefois to 
copy his example. " You will need all the arms 
your good God gave you. And " — he began to 
roll up his sleeves — " I hope your pious soul is 

He stood there, the wan light of early dawn 
picking out his handsome but evil features. 
Secure in his victory of a dozen fatal duels, his 
head tilted high, De Bray smiled as he watched 
his uncle, so little beyond his own age, scale 
down to his lace-edged shirt. 

" Let us find a spot," he said, in the ever- 
mocking tone, " where you need be at no dis- 
advantage." And he led the way to the fairly 
clear space of the sunken road. 

De Bonnefois followed. He knew that De 
Bray, the more brilliant swordsman, would 
attempt to rush him and finish him early. The 
somewhat younger man, with trust enough in 
his great skill, but not such trust in a physique 
worn down by wild living, must hope for victory 
in the first few minutes. De Bonnefois was 
confident, none the less, that, could he save 
himself for Antoinette in the first few exchanges, 
he had the great prize of* her safety well in his 

With heart pounding, the girl herself stole 
after the two men, keeping behind the trees and 
scarcely daring to see the deadly encounter 
upon which so much depended, not for herself 
alone, but for another. • 

From the first crossing of their steel it was a 
furious battle. De Bray fought like a fiend, De 
Bonnefois as if he were crushing a viper. Made 
utterly careless by shame and lapse of honour, 
De Bray opened with a rapidity of play that 
"Mule his sword look like a fan of swords. In 

his catlike movements he scarcely touched the 
turf with his feet. Twice during the first few 
passes his blade grazed De Bonnefois* throat. 

This prospect of a speedy victory fired the 
young wretch to redoubled energy. His eyes 
blazed and his lips parted across his white teeth 
in a devilish grin. Nothing saved the slower 
De Bonnefois but such a call upon his skill as he 
had never made before. Often enough he had 
fought in play ; but here a second's slip meant 
death, and De Bonnefois knew it. Attempting no 
stroke on his own part, he knew he must place 
all his skill in the parry, not for his own sake alone 
but for another. And never before had he so 
deftly parried. Not even De Bray's bewildering 
succession of lunges found a single opening in his 
cool defence. At least, not one was De Bray 
permitted to find in the first two minutes. 

In no time the prancing feet of the two had 
beaten down a wide circle in the grass. Save 
for the sing and click of their metal and the 
quick gasping of their breath, the wood kept 
almost total silence. 

But in a minute more the gasping of De Bray 
became the more noticeable. De Bonnefois 
marked it, but not before the young fiend had 
felt it himself 1 The early victory had been 
denied him. And maddened now by De Bon- 
nefois' unexpected skill, dreading to wear down 
his own wind before he could bear down his 
opponent's defence, De Bray suddenly changed 
his tactics. With every resource of evil he fell 
into craft. His left arm took to weary swinging 
at his side, in a feigned exhaustion. His feet 
grew heavy and his body swayed. 

Instantly De Bonnefois saw his moment. Not 
in vain had he parried and waited. And chang- 
ing now to a furious offence, he bore in upon the 
other and fairly swept him off his feet. Round 
and round De Bray backed away as if ready to 
drop. That he saw his end approaching was 
stamped on his face. 

So plain became its look of distress that De 
Bonmefois paused, breathless himself, with the 
cry : " You're finished, Charles ! Have done 
with this foolery ! " 

He was answered by a shriek from Antoinette. 

In a flash De Bray came to life at the moment 
De Bonnefois lowered his sword. Before the 
elder man could atte/npt to defend himself a thin 
stripe of red appeared under his left arm and 
began to streak the white of his shirt. 

" The blood of the martyr, as I live ! " De 
Bray exulted. 

Desperate now and yet hopeful anew, he 
threw himself into the fray with double his 
former fury. Victory must come to him in a 
moment or pass altogether ; and, tossing the 
code to the winds, he plunged in with every 
trick of the rogue long practised in the wiles of 
villainy, so that De Bonnefois once cried out : — 

" Do you also stab in the back ? " 

" Anything will do when sticking a pig," De 
Bray retorted. 

Other spots of red appeared over De Bonne- 
fois' heart. So swift were his antagonist's lunges, 
so snakelilre was their ceiling delivery, that he 
could no longer sweep them aside as before. 

1 84 





" See I " laughed De Bray as he saw this, " I 
offer you as a pincushion to the wench/' 

But the insult to Antoinette and the sting of 
his wounds brought a change now to De Bonne- 
fois. Something more of the brute arose in him. 

Till then he had f ought with the fine pity that 
was born in him. Now of a sudden he borrowed 
the speed of hrs di?r.d!y enemy. Faster than the 


1 85 

Antoinette, a cry of a different tenor. The 
mocking smile bad disappeared from De Bray s 
tips, and in its place grew a ghastly and bleeding 

For an instant De Bray reeled, more in sur- 
prise than in pain. Then what had been merely 
a rage before became an insanity of hatred. 
With the cry of a wild animal from his tattered 
lips he bore in, and again and again he picked a 
new spot of red on De Bonnefois' breast. • 

" Aha ! " he soon shouted. " Come, priest ! 
The last rites for the Sieur de Bonnefois ! And 
a slice of his fortune I " he tried to say ; but 
the words were barely intelligible. 

Breath was failing him. The keen eye was 
dulling, and the drink-soaked brain was bidding 
adieu to its craft. One last supreme effort De 
Bray seemed to summon from his tiring arm, 
yet it was less De Bonnefois* thrust than that 
De Bray plunged blindly against his steel. 
In a trice the younger man was reeling away 
with a second fiery gash across his face in the 
gathering dread of his first defeat. 

Again he turned and -rather felt than rushed 
forward. And again, with real victory in sight, 
De Bonnefois would have stayed himself, all fire 
and wrath though he now was. But the impulse 
of mercy had come too late. The order had 
gone forth from his brain, and this time his blade 
nicked its way across De Bray's throat. A 
crimson cascade poured down the young fiend's 
breast, as the evil heart within, as if in con- 
fession, heaved out its hot contents. 

And yet again came Antoinette's cry, and 
another : " Julien ! Fly ! Come with me ! *\ 

De Bonnefois failed to hear it. A strange 
ringing was in his ears, a strange weariness in 
his limbs. In vain he tried to push her away 
from his reeking shirt as she rushed to him, 
pointing wildly across the wood. 

In the distance a great shouting and clatter 
had arisen. Shots were fired *and, amid the 
galloping of horses, Antoinette distinctly heard 
the fall of one or two of them in a great crash. 
There was no mistaking it. The blackguard 
band of De Bray were flying back to his rescue. 

Side by side they stood there, De Bonnefois 
and she, with their backs to the nearest tree, 
and awaited the onset. Not a moment had 
been left them to hide themselves. 

There, rounding a coppiced corner in the 
sunken road they came, the flying figure of her 
uncle in the lead, his face uglier* than ever and 
almost bursting with blood in his straining 
endeavour. Feebly De Bonnefois raised his 
sword, to strike as he might in defence. 

But the flying band fled on 1 Over the fallen 
figure of De Bray they leaped their horses, till 
one of them kicked it aside. Only the last man 
in the string, seeing the bewildered Antoinette 
and her companion and mistaking them for two 
of the criminal crew, shouted a needless warning 
and sped on. 

° The King's constables ! The King's con- 
stables are after us all ! *' 

A little later six of the Sieur de Bonnefois* 
servants, having heard the wild alarm, set out in 
search of their master, and presently found him, 
in a swoon on the ground from his great weak- 
ness, his wounds strangely bound up in feminine 
Hnen and his white face pillowed on the bosom 
of a weeping girl. 

Some paces away lay a lifeless figure, his 
handsome but haunted face dotting the centre 
of a circle of red on the grass. 

So they carried the Sieur de Bonnefois, as 
Mademoiselle Antoinette commanded, back to 
her former dwelling ; and there for some days 
he lay in a delirium, fighting over and over the 
contest in her defence. 

But towards the close of the sixth day, about 
sundown, it was seen that he opened his eyes 
and that the haze had left them. 

And when he saw Antoinette he was heard to 
whisper : ." Ah, then you are safe ! But De 
Bray ? And where am I ? " 

And so it was that she told him of the recent 
past, of his recovery, and of the just punish- 
ment meted out to the renegades. 

So also, as she finished, De Bonnefois told her 
of the future. 

Thus it was that the ancient parsonage fell 
altogether now into decay. So it was likewise 
the reason why the manor of the Sieur de Bonne- 
fois after all acquired a gracious mistress. 
Neither is it a mystery why, after a time, when 
an heir came to fill their halls with brave shouts 
and merry laughter, the Sieur and Madame de 
Bonnefois chose for him the homely name of 


TWO-MOVER.— Key : I. K to K 6; mate follows 
after knight moves. 
Three-Mover.— i. Q to R 4, 1. K takes B (a) ; 2. 

Kt to B 5, ch., 2. Any ; 3. Q to K 4, mate, (a) 1. K to 
K 5; 2. Kt to B 2, dis.rh., 2. K, any ; 3. Qmates. The 
Kt makes a circular tour according to Black's moves. 

by Google 

Original from 






perched himself, this Sunday 
evening in midsummer, on a 
certain stile that you have to 
climb if you take the footpath- 
way from Much Martindale to 
Little Martindale. 
Young Mr. Goldy was a very 
enviable fellow. To begin with, he had come 
through the war with hardly a scratch and the 
Military Cross. That, in itself, would have 
been a start in life. But Fortune had showered 
him with favours from the very moment of his 

Richard had been a fine baby, and was now 
a very splendid young man. He had curly 
brown hair, and large brown eyes, and a straight 
nose, and straight legs. His smile was sunny, 
and his manner affable. He could chaff you, 
flirt you, dance you, cajole you with more 
hope of success than any other demobilized 
hero within a radius of four miles. 

More than all, he was the only son — indeed, 
the only child— of old Goldy. Old Goldy 
was not only a doting parent, he was " warm " 
— in the financial sense. If you wanted to 
buy an estate or a farm, or even a cottage, 
you went to old Goldy ; if you wished to sell, 
once again you relied on old Goldy. Old Goldy, 
in short, had the district in his pocket, and his 
name had come to be a household word in Much 
Martindale, Little Martindale, and a score of 
neighbouring villages. You will easily under- 
stand, therefore, that the girls of the district 
smiled with uncommon sweetness on Richard 

" Here they come," said Richard, and strolled 
a little way from the stile. He was not exactly 
lurking, and yet there was something a trifle 
furtive in his manner. Any young man who 
has ever waited by a stile on the chance of 
meeting an extremely pretty girl will know 
precisely how he felt, and anybody of either 
sex who has ever observed a young man under 
such conditions will know precisely how he 

She was not in the first group, which was a 
party of laughing country-girls, enjoying the 
reaction that often follows evening service. 







Nor was she in the second group, a family party ; 
nor in the third group, a band of larrikins 
whistling after the receding girls. Petunia was 
alone ; she sang softly to herself as she savoured 
the mingled scent of the honeysuckle and the 
dog-roses and the deep meadow-grass. 

Richard, stepping forward, raised his hat 
in a very gallant and fascinating manner. 
" Good evening, Miss Vale," said he. 

Petunia, who had espied him some distance 
off, gave a slight and quite creditable little 
jump. " Oh ! good evening, Mr. Goldy." 

" What a perfect evening, isn't it ? " 

" Delicious ! " 

" You've been to service at Much Martin- 
dale, I see." 

" Yes." 

She had arrived at the stile, which was rather 
a high one. Nothing, if you were alone, but 
quite something if a handsome young man was 
devouring you with hungry eyes. 

" I thought you would. In fact, I saw you 

" Really ? " And Petunia smiled. That smile 
sent all the blood to young Richard's head. 
For the matter of that, it had sent the blood 
to the head of every eligible man in Little 
Martindale — and a few, possibly, who were not 
eligible, being already married. But that was 
their affair, and they have nothing to do with 
this story. 

" Yes," confirmed Richard, caring not a 
fig for paternal scruples. The girl might be 
poor, but she was a darling. She might be 
nothing more than a " companion," but what 
of it ? (Well, we shall see what of it.) " To 
tell the truth," he continued, as drunk as a 
young man can be on love and the magic of 
a June evening, " X came along here on pur- 
pose to meet you." 

"tM't'Ewas; verjfi4l6rtl6.^tti. M said Petunia, 



and looked for a moment at his flushed and 
eager face. She then dug up a quite useful 
stone with the ferrule of her parasol. 

" I didn't come out of kindness. Miss Vale. 
At least, I feel — well, that isn't the word. I 
came because I — I wanted to tell you something/ 1 
" Perhaps you'd better not tell me/' sug- 
gested Petunia, gravely. 

" I must tell you J I've got to tell you I 
I love you ! Now I've told you \ ,J 

Petunia was not particularly agitated. Girls 
as pretty as alt that, even in country places, 
soon get accustomed to hearing declarations 
of undying affection, This was the fifth Petunia 
had received since 
she came to Little 
Martindale, There 
had been Mr. Bruff, 
the farmer ; and 
Mr, G a z e I y, the 
curate ; and Mr. 
Penny cook, the 
lawyer ; and Mr. 
Applegarth, the re- 
tired widower. She 
had declined them, 
of course, but so 
gently that all were 
stilt hoping. 

She now pro- 
ceeded to do the 
same by young 
Richard. Other 
girls may be in- 
terested to know 
how Pfetunia did it\ 
She began by mak- 
ing a considerable 
pause \ that was 
t*nly due to the 
importance of the 
occasion. She then 
sighed; that showed 
nice feeling* She 
next looked at the 
horizon and said, 

slowly, "I'm sorry." After that, naturally, she 
had to wait for her cue. 

" Sorry ? " repeated Richard, " Does that 
mean it's no good ? " 

" I'm afraid not." 

" h this final 7 " 

" I'm afraid so. You see " 

" Yes ? " Where there's explanation there's hope. 

" You may think me a curious girl, Mr- Goldy, 
but I have my own ideas about the sort of man 
I want to marry." 

™ And he's not a bit like me, eh ? " 

" I don't say that, But there's one very 
important — what shall I call it ? — qualification 
which I'm afraid you lack." 

" What's that ? Richard was puzzled. What 
in the world did he lack ? 

" Well, Mr. Goldy, the passion of my life is 
music. I made up my mind, years ago, that 
I would never marry a man who was not musical* 
You may think it silly, but if a man is 
musical " 

He helped 

" My dear girl," cried Richard, rt I am musical 1 
I love music I I can whistle you anything out 
of ' The Bing Boys ' or Gilbert and Sullivan ! " 
"I'm afraid," replied Petunia, with a grave 
shake of her pretty little head, " whistling 
wouldn't do. I like very good whistling, but 
one would tire of it. You don't happen to 
play the violin, I suppose, or the piano ? " 
" No, but I could soon learn." 
" I hate to discourage you. Mr. Goldy ; but 
these instruments arc most difficult to master. 
I should want perfection, and few people, how- 
ever gifted, attain perfection unless they begin 
as children What a pity you don't sing 1 " 

" Sing ? But I do 
sing 1 You ought 
to hear me in 
my— ! Well, 
yon ought to hear 
me ! " 

" I have heard 
you, Mr. Goldy/' 

"You have? 
When ? " 

" When I've been 
passing your house* 
You have a good, 
strong voice, but it 
needs a great deal 
of training. Your 
production is all 
wrong. Oh, forgive 
me for saying these 
things, I've no 
right to I" 

"Oh, yes, yon 
have, I say, d'you 
think if 'l had 
some lessons in 
singing, and prac- 
tised very hard, 
you coul d — you 
mights— - ? " 

" I don't know/' 

pondered Petunia, 

"Shall I try? 

few weeks or a few months, 

it takes to train a voice ? 

iCr over I 

Will you wait a 
or however long 
Do, Miss Vale I " 

*' But it's such a responsibility I It would 
be awful for me if I put you to all that trouble 
and expense and then — then " 

" I must take my chance of that, I'm a 
sportsman, and if I lose I sha'n't grouse. The 
question is, where can I get lessons ? I 
don't want the whole village to know about it. 
When I*m fully trained, I'd like to burst on them 
and take them by surprise- But you know how 
they chatter in small places." 

f " Oh, yes. You may rely on me to keep 
your secret. Now, let me see. I wonder if 
there's anybody in Much Marti ndale who givts 
singing lessons ? There ought to be. Why not 
inquire ? " 

" I will. Ill go over to-morrow and rout 

I somebody, or 





mufti 3 

" You leave it to me, Miss Vale, When Tin 
keen on a thing, I'm a difficult chap to stop. 
Are you going straight home ? M 

*' Quite/* replied Petunia. " Good-night, Mr. 

M Good -night, Miss Vale.'* But he helped 
her over the stile* That was better than nothing. 

Young RICHARD walked into Much Martin- 
dale the very next morning* He was i nt ending - 
to put a discreet inquiry or so at the Blue Swan, 
but whilst waiting for the magic hour of noon 
he happened to meet the rector, 

'* Ah ! M cried the rector, who always stopped 
to talk to everybody, so that it often took him 
an hour and a half to go a •hundred yards, 
11 another of our brave 
Richard Goldy, isn't 
it ? You young fellows 
grow up so fast I can 
hardly keep pace with 
you all ! " 

They had the usual 
chat about demobiliza- 
tion, and the disgrace- 
ful delay in paying 
gratuities, and then 
Richard managed to 
mention the subject of 
th e s i ngi ng 1 essons . The 
rector promptly lit up, 

" My dear Goldy, I 
know the very man, 
and you'll be doing a 
charitable act into the 
bargain. Mr + Trevald- 
wyn, my organist— 
that's the teacher for 
you." The rector 
lowered his voice, 
"The poor fellow was 
hard hit by the war 

— lost a finger at Ypr^s — but he plays the 
organ exquisitely, and I'm told he's remark- 
ably 1 clever at teaching singing. Come along 
with me and I'll introduce you.*' 

So they went forthwith to a humble lodging, 
and the door was opened by a little girl of ten, 
who ran quickly to fetch Mr. Trevaldwyn. 
Having introduced Richard, the rector hurried 
off at a great pace, but pulled up twenty yards 
away to talk for twenty minutes to the old 
woman hobbling along with the <iid of two sticks* 

Mr. Trevaldwyn, before discussing terms 
or times or anything else whatever, went 
straight to the piano and struck a note, 

" Just sing * la/ " said he, 

JJ La," sang Richard, rather timorously* 

" Don't be afraid of it," exhorted the teacher* 
" Let the sound come naturally, with the breath. 
Don't close the throat. I know it makes the 
voice sound richer, but it's dreadful to the 
experienced ear. Nothing kills a throat more 
quickly* Now — once again—please/' 

M La.** sang Richard, more confidently, 

*' That's better. Your ear is correct, Mr. 
Goldy, and you have a voice, but you know 

nothing at all about' using it. Pardon my 
frankness. Do you ever sing in public ? " 
" Oh, well, only at village concerts/ 1 
" Quite. Let me advise you not to sing at 
any concerts or anywhere else until IVe had 
a go at you. You'll only injure your voice 
besides doing yourself an injustice. Now, 
what time would you find most convenient ? 

" I can arrange my time to suit your other 

" That's most obliging of you. As a matter 
of fact. I'm fairly busy with private teaching 
— far busier than I ever expected to be." 

Xt Really ? May I fafc 
if you have any other 
pupils from Little ftlar- 
tindale t " 

" Well, yes, I have. 
But they particularly 
asked me not to men- 
tion the fact/' 

" Indeed ? Would it 
be a breach of confi- 
dence if you told me 
whether they were 
ladies or gentlemen ? " 
" I don't think so. 
They're alt gentlemen/ 1 
Richard Goldy saw, 
in a flash, the perilous 
position in which he 
was placed. He r/as 
fairly certain that Bruff 
and Gazely and Penny- 
cook and Apple garth 
had all tried their luck 
with Petunia. She must 
have made the same re- 
ply to eac:h of them h wi th 
the result that the whole 
bun di had submitted 
themselves secretly to 
Mr. Trevaldwyn ! 
Hastily, he estimated their chances. Bruff 
could roar like the Bull of Basan, but he would 
never sing. Young Richard ticked him off. 
Gaiely, the curate, had a nice light tenor a 
bit throaty, perhaps, bat the crganist was the 
man to cure him of that. Yes, Gaiely would 
be a strong rival, Penuycook had a voice 
like a corncrake^ and Applegarth, anyway, 
was too old. So it came to a contest between 
himself and Gazely. True, he was better off 
than Gazely, but Miss Vale \ras not the girl 
to be influenced by sordid considerations. 

n I'll take the full course, Mr. Trevaldwyn, 
and I'd like to begin at once. Please treat 
the matter as quite confidential. Now, what 
is the earliest date by which I might venture 
to— well, to sing in public ? *' 

" If you practise hard, Mr. Goldy, and follow 
my instructions very carefully, I should like 
you to appear at my concert in about ten weeks' 

" Your concert ? You're giving a concert ? " 
" Yes. I want to let the town see what my 
pupils can do. The rector has very kitullv 
pxomi4|Mhtf^ to make 

Ehe ^irenuou^ricss Op- 
tus cj&rfe to win, ffekuuat 



ui the bsJkroonh 

quite a night of it. One or two of my Army pals 
are coming down from town —professionals, 
of course/' 

' By Jove, I could never stand up to that ! M 

" Oh, we shall work wondeia with your voice 
in ten weeks. I won't let you appear, you may 
bo sure, unless I think you'll do me credit," 

"Might I* ask if any of your — cr— other 
pupils from Little Martindale will sing at the 
concert ? M 

" I certainly hope so* About one I am confi- 
dent : the others are not so promising at present.' ' 

Gazely ! Gazely was the fellow ! He would 
be on the platform, in his long black coat and 
his nice white collar and his angelic smile 
and smooth fair hair. Women always went 
crazy about curates, and if they could 
intone I 

M Right t " cried young Richard, " I'll have 
a shot 1 Let's start now ! Give me half ?.a 
hour— twenty minutes — anything you can spare!" 

" Very well. We'll begin on that breathing." 

So Mr. Trevaldwyn sat down to the piano, 
and Richard stood beside him, and the stuffed 
birds fluttered with the strenuous ness of his 
efforts to win Petunia. 

' Take it easily." said Mr. Trevaldwyn. " Go 
quietly, and let the sound come of itself. Inflate 
the diaphragm- Don't catch at your breath. 
Don't be jerky, Think of your throat as the 
pipe of an organ. Now, once again the scale." 

- La_la_ia— la— la— to— la— LA I M yelled 
young Richard* 

After half an hour of it he was quite ready for 
the Blue Swan, but he caught sight of Bruff 
in the bar-parlour, and wouldn't run the risk of 

letting the farmer see the " Manual of Elementary 
Voice-Production " which was sticking out of his 
p icket- 

Ite took to the fields instead, and found a 
remote comer, and competed with a lark about 
five hundred feet up. The lark had no " Manual," 
but he managed to fly and sing at the same time, 
which brought a scowl to the features oi young 

Hir a little shy about singing scales at 
home, for his father had a satirical turn in 
certain moods. But Richard got over the 
difficulty by taking a bath. 
Anybody was allowed to sing 
in the bathroom, and the bare 
walls and resonant bath flattered 
the voice, which, incidentally, is 
the reason why bathrooms are 
so popular for matutinal vocal- 
izations: . . - 

There was no bathroom, luckily, 
in the cottage where Gazely 
lodged ; the curate had to be 
content with a tub. But Richard 
often met the fellow on the foot- 
path-way to Much Marti nd ale, 
and Gazely kept up his visits all 
the ten weeks. Bruff always had 
used the pathway ; but then 
Bruff, as we know, had other 
attractions in the little town. As 
for Pennycook and Applegarth, 
they fell off at the end of the first month. 
Applegarth, out of revenge, married his house- 
keeper, and Pennycook, possibly from a similar 
motive, devoted the evening hours to his clients* 

To each man his own particular anodyne* 


The evening of the concert in the parish hall 
arrived at last, and Richard was going to sing 
"The Yeoman's Wedding." The title was 
significant ; he would look at Petunia nearly 
all the time. As for Mr. Gazely, he had *et 
his heart on " Abide with me," but the organist 
had dissuaded him. "Songs of Araby" was 
his next choice ; Mr. Trevaldwyn, however, 
could not guarantee the high, sustained note at 
the finish. The ultimate selection was "Come 
into the Garden, Maud." 

" After all," reflected the little curate, " I 
often dm at the gate alone. Rather a pathetic 
touch. If I break down, she will attribute it 
to emotion/' For the fortieth time, and with 
trembling fingers, he brushed the smooth, fair 

Young Richard felt fairly confident. He had 
worked hard — somewhat -to. the detriment of 
the bathroom ceiling- — and Mr. Trevaldwyn was 
pleased. But Richard was not the man to 
leave a stone unturned. He had been brought 
up to believe in the power of the purse, and he 
intended that the purse should stand him in 
good stead on this fateful occasion. 

So he .bought quite., a lot of tickets — some from 
Mr. TrA^J£J^Tah&%G^ rector and 

some from the post-office, and some from the 



local gentleman who had printed them. They 
were not all for the reserved seats. A goodly 
proportion, were shilling tickets, and these carried 
with them, so generous was young Richard, a 
coupon for a pint of the best ale obtainable 
from the Blue Swan* 

The rector took the chair, of course, and Mr* 
Trevaldwyn himself opened the programme with 
a pianoforte solo. It was a little above the 
musical intelligence of the audience, but they 
liked it all the better for that, and the item was a 
great success- 

Young Richard's supporters had not yet 
arrived, but Petunia was there in pale blue. 
If I have not mentioned that her eyes also were 
blue, that is an oversight. Anyhow, they were, 
and the rest of the delightful picture she pre- 
rented you can easily imagine for yourself. 
She appeared to be alone, which did not enhance 
her popularity with the mothers of Much Martin- 
dale. Companion, eh ? Something fishy about 
her, you might be pretty certain I 

Mr. Gazely was third on the programme. 
His hair was all right at last, but the stupid 
music would not keep still. The room must 
be col dp Perhaps he was in for a bout of 
influenzal Nevermind. The black, black night 
had by no means flown, and he intended to 
invite w Maud ** into the garden if it laid him 
up for a month ! 

The little man got on better than Richard 
had expected. Curates were always popular, 
and Mr, Trevaldwyn, at the piano, nursed hi m 
through the dangerous places. Still* there was 
no particular reason why Miss Vale should 
have clapped her hands so cordially. Richard 
noticed this through a hole :n the screen, and 

so did other people in the audience. " Night 
have known" hissed the other people, under 
cover of the applause, 

There was no encore. The curate had his 
second song ready, but the applause just stopped 
a moment too soon. His hands and limbs had 
stopped shaking, which proved that the room 
was now warmer* 

Richard came on seventh/ He took the Stage 
with a rather careless air, one white -gloved hand 
in the pocket of his faultless dress-trousers. 
Applause, He raised his eyebrows, smiled, and 
bowed to Petunia. She had not applauded at 
present, but gave him a pretty little nod of 
encouragement^ " See that?" hissed the other 
people* "She's after the lot / " 

Richard cleared his throat and stepped for- 
ward. More applause. The pints were doing 
their work. Gaining confidence! he imagined 
himself in the bathroom and let them have it. 
It was a hearty rendering — just the thing for 
a country audience. Besides, he looked so 
" nice.* 1 Not the slightest doubt about the 
encore. On the advice of his tntor t he abandoned 
** The Admiral's Broom/ J and gave them the 
last verse of "The Yeoman's Wedding M ag^in. 
Much fluttering of hearts. Mr. Gazely per- 
ceived that the room had grown chilly again. 
Draught somewhere, 


The concert was over and the audience filing 
out of the parish room into official twilight. 
They found Mr, Gazely on one side of the main 
exit and Richard Goldy on the other. The 
curate was all smiles and Richard all frown*. 
Both expressions meant the same thing — frantic 

abEe above fa — 
musical inWCocncc 
n hU aoiidtcrjcc.Gut 

tied draff fa- 

* Car fiat 




jealousy blended 
with acute anxiety* 

Naturally, they 
had to be congra- 
tulated. It looked 
as though they 
were waiting for 
that, but they were 
not. They were 
waiting for Petunia, 
If the curate saw 
her home, it would 
be over Richard's 
dead body. If 
Richard saw her 
home, the curate 
would keep close 
b?hind them all 
the way* He had 
his own opinion of 
the Army. 

But F^tunia did 
not come* The 
caretaker was put- 
ting out the lights. 

- *Well P " said the 
c irate, ** I'll wish 
you good night, 
Mr. Goldy." 

"Good night/ 1 
barked Richard. 

The curate 
walked smartly 
down the street, 
turned to the left, 
doubled on his 
t racks Jand tip-toed 
r.imbiy to the door 
of the little room 
at the back of the 

hall* Mr* Goldy was already there. He had 
taken a short cut through the main building. 

" Well, really ! " ejaculated the curate 

" She's in there/* whispered Richard, hoarsely* 
(It might have been the night air on an inflamed 

" In where ? J ' gasped 
the curate- 

" In this room — ■ 
with Trevaldwyn. I 
saw their shadows on 
the blind." 

" I didn't know she 
knew him/ 1 

" Nor I- But she 
does — r ather well. 



He tout ike 
afc&cre with 3t 
raiher careless 



The shadows 
came again on the 
yellow blind* 

There was no mis- 
taking those sil- 
houetted profiles. 
His looked down 
and hers looked 
up. Their noses 
drew nearer and 
nearer. The curate 
c o u L d hardl y 
breathe. Richard, 
quite unconsciously, 
was snorting. 

The noses missed 
each other by a 
miracle, but the lips 
made a better shot 
of it* The curate, 
trembling like an 
aspen* clutched at 
Richard for sup- 

"'This is no 
p-place for us I" he 

44 One moment I " 
The profiles had 
separated a little, 
and Petunia was 
speaking* The door 
must have been 
slightly ajar, for 
her voice came 
quite clearly 
through the still 
night air. 

" J did it all for 
you, Arthur/* 

" My clever^ beautiful -** 

*" Love had to find a way, Arthur." 
" It has, my adored I Thanks to you and y\ ur 
good friends and the proceeds of the concert 
we shall be able to furnish our little cottage/* 

" Oh, Arthur I #> 
* My own Petunia I " 
And the lips made 
another excellent shot, 

u Well. I am I " 

gurgled Richard* 

" Hush I Oh, hush I " 
implored the curate. 

And they twain 
stole silently over the 
deserted fields to Little 




by 0(K 

atier the H\ 


Original from 

Selecting a Holiday 

Why a middle-aged Brewer set out for the Vale of Cashmere — the 
Queerest ^Vay ever invented of choosing a Place for a Holiday* 

T one of the most famous of the 
London Service clubs, a few 
e venings ago, the talk turned 
on the subject of holidays, to 
which so many of our fight i rig- 
men are now looking forward, 
Various methods of deciding 
upon the scene of one's pleasur- 
ing were discussed, and, apropos, a naval officer 
whose name is renowned told this odd story. 

* H The queerest way I ever heard of to pkk 
out a spot in which to make holiday," said he. 
" was disclosed through a chance conversation 
with a fellow-passenger, a middle-aged American, 
whom X met on my last trip to the East. Our 
talk revealed him to be a brewer, whose home 
was in Milwaukee, in the State of Wisconsin, 
where more beer is produced, and dnmk, than, 
in all probability, any other part of the United 

" Having made his pile, he was on his travels, 
and when I inquired his destination he calmly 
gave me the .surprising answer that he was on 
his way to the Vale of Cashmere. Now, pleasure 
trip^ on the part of elderly American brewers 
to the Vale of Cashmere are rare, to put it 
mildly* and I was fain to express my astonish- 

ment, and to inquire why on earth he was going 
there. He answered, still in a perfectly matter- 
of-fact way, that he was proceeding to Cashmere 
for a six months* holiday ; and then went on 
to tell me of the astonishing process which hed 
resulted in his starting off thither— from Mil- 
waukee, Wis, I 

"It appeared that P having got his brewing 
business into such a sett led condition of prosperity 
that it would more or less ' run itself/ and 
desiring to see something of the world before he 
* pegged out, 1 as he put it. he had made up his 
mi^d. some years previously, to treat himself to 
six months' complete holiday once every two 

, ,f This is how he decided en where he would 
spend that holiday. In his home in Milwaukee 
he had a big turuable globe of the earth's surface. 
A few weeks before he w T as ready to embark 
upon the first of the vacations upon which he 
had decided he repaired to his library, where 
he kept this gin be, and carried with him one of 
his wife*s hatpins. This was his plan* He had 
decided to give the globe a spin and, as it was 
making its revolutions, to stab it with a hatpin 
haplUmfcSR^We^WlluWlO.'We earth's surface 
the point of the hatpin happened to penetrate, 


there, he had made up his mind, should his six interval, however, he had read everything that 

months' holiday be spent. Unless, of course, he could lay hands on about the famous Vale, 

he happened to ' jab ' into one of the oceans, and was enthusiastic about the six months he 

in which case he would allow himself another intended to spend ; here, 
try ! "As a matter of fact, I envied him the 

" Curious to relate, the first time he put his experience, for the Vale of Cashmere, as I 
idea into practice, the place he ' jabbed ' proved happen to know through having once passed a 
to be t e oddly-named American city of Kala- year there, is absolutely top-hole. Nothing can 
mazoo, Michigan, whence come so many of our well exceed its fertile beauty, or the charm of 
roll-top desks and carpet-sweepers. Michigan, its climate. It is almost surrounded by snow- 
be it explained, is in the very next State to the capped mountains, the lower slopes of which 
brewer's own native one of Wisconsin, and the descend in gentle slopes to the level of the 
journey from Milwaukee to Kalamazoo is only valley. Avenues of poplars line the banks 
one of a few hours by steamer across Lake of the River Jhelum, which winds through the 
Michigan, which separates the two States. The valley, and the canals lend to the see ery 
brewer had been to Kalamazoo, as he said, a peculiar grace which is quite distinctive of 
' time and again.' Nevertheless, as he had Cashmere. The peculiar design which marks 
decided to spend his holiday wherever the pin- all Cashmere ware, notably its shawl-weaving 
point went in, he journeyed to Kalamazoo, and and lacquer work, is said to be derived from the 
duly made holiday there for six months. ' Had graceful curves of the Jhelum as viewed from 
a bully time, too,' he declared. the summit of the Takht-i-Suliman, a well-known 

" Two years later, when another of his vaca- hill that overlooks the city of Srinagar. 
tions was nearly due, he repeated the amazing " So I imagine," concluded the officer, "that 

process, this time jabbing the point of the hat- my brewer enjoyed to the full his holiday in 

pin squarely in the centre of the Vale of Cash- Cashmere, and that he had wonderful things to 

mere. I imagine that his ideas regarding this tell them when he got back to his native 

classic region, one of the loveliest on earth, were Milwaukee. I often think of him, and wonder 

as vague, at the outset, as one would expect where the * jabs ' of his hatpin ordained that he 

those of a Milwaukee brewer to be. In the should spend the rest of his amazing holidays." 

Result of Prize Competition for Novel-Readers. 

The following is a list of the Characters from Well-Known Novels which readers were asked 
to identify: — 

1 . Nick Radcliffe ( The Way of an Eagle). 2. Captain Kettle ( Adventures ol Captain Kettle). 3. Ragles 
(Rajles). 4. Sir Wil lough by Patterne (The Egoist), c. Barabbas (Barabbas). 6. Svenga'f (7Yi7fry). 
7. John Silver (Treasure Island). 8. Ayesha (or She) (She). 9. Lord Faunt'eroy (Little Lord 
Fauntleroy). 10. Kim (Kim), it. fchmael Ameer (or the White Prophet) (The White Prophet). 
12. Dicky Lest ramie (Blue Lagoon). 13. Gabriel Oak (Far from the Ma darn? Crowd). 14. Jane Eyre 
(fane Eyre). 15. S:r Percy BlakeneWor the Scarlet Pimpernel) (Scarlet Pimpernel). 16. Quinncy 
(Quinnr/s). 17. The Dop Doctor (or Owen Saxham) (Dop Doctor). 18. Amelia (Vanity Fair). 
1 9. Uncle Tom (Uncle Tom's Cabin). 20. Gavin Dishart (or the Little Minister) (Little Minister). 
2\. Bella Donna (or Mrs. Chepstow or Mrs. Ruby Armine) (Bella Donna). 22. Kipps (Kipps). 
23. Monsieur Beaucure (Monsieur Beaucaire). 24. Count Fosco (Woman in White). 25. Captain 
Back (or the Iron Pirate) (Iron Pirate). 26. Jeanie Deans (Heart of Midlothian). 27. Sherlock 
Holmes (Adventures of Sherlock Holmes). 28. The Night Watchman (Many Cargoes and other Books) 
29. Adam B*le (Adam Bede). 30. Pickwick (Pickwick Papers). 

Although every character was correctly guessed many times over, no one competitor succeeded in 
naming correctly all the thirty characters, and the best list contained twenty'seven correct answers. 
This was sent in by 

MRS. J. EDWARDS, 20, Greenhill Rd, Moseley, Birmingham, 

to whom is awarded the 

FIRST PRIZE of £100. 

No one sent in lists containing twenty -six or twenty-five correct answers, but eight competitors 
successfully named twenty*four of the characters. We have therefore decided to divide the 
remaining £50 among these eight competitors, each of whom will receive a prize of £6 5 0. 
Their name; and addresses are : — 

Mrs. F. M. Hewett, Newlyn. Kneller Road, Whitton. Mi.. R. A. Conry. The Hostel No. 5. Little Portland Street 

Twickenham. London, W.l. 

Eme«t B.Brett, 72. Ceeile Park, Crouch End, London, N.8. Miss Joan Hawau-d- 12. LabsLudm Crescent, Darlinfton. 

Mr*. H. Moody, Knockroe. Monaghan, Ireland. Mis*<ir Draper. 7 Upi»?r!an Cudem. Ea«tboiime. 

Mr*. Frost 34. Herondale Avenue, London, S.W.1&. Mrs. Ryan. Mantield Vicarage, IParlin&ton. 

Johnny's Disappearance. 



Illustrated by G, E. Stuady, 

t[£S story happened when Mary- 
tary was going to school, 
johnny Feascod was at school 
too, but he was far away from 
Marytary because he was at a 
boarding -school, and did not 
come home every day before 
tea as Marytary did* It all 
began quite early in the murniiig, lonf? before 
the milkman, came, when Marytary heard some- 
one throwing stones up against the window. 
She jumped out of bed and rushed to the 
window; and first of all she did not see any- 
tiling at all, and then, on the path below, she 
saw a funny little dwarf all alone by himself 
in a big hat* Then the dwarf said in a low 
voice : " Come down, Marytary. and let me in/* 
Then Marytary knew it was Johnny Peascod 
all the time, and she thought he was a dwarf 
because he was wearing such funny baggy 
clothes and such a large* grown-up hat ; so 
Marytary ran 
quietly in her 
dre ssing- 
gown, and 
opened t h e 
front door, 
and Johnny 
stepped into 
the hail and 
shut the 

Now I think 
it was a most 
thing to hap- 
pen, for little 
Johnny's faee 
and hands 
were black 
like those of 
a sweep who 
sweeps the 
When Mary- 
tary looked at him she was so surprised that it 
made Johnny laugh more and more. 

" What's the matter ? " said Marytary, 
* 4 and why are you laughing ? " 

14 It's such a joke ; arid you should have seen 
old Blims running/' said Johnny ; and it made 
him laugh again, so Marytary laughed too. 


"But why have you come like this ? rp said 
Marytary, " so early, and in all those funny 
clothes ; and have the holidays begun ? ** 

"No/' said Johnny, 'the holidays won't 
begin for weeks and weeks, and these are old 
Blims' clothes, and it is a secret, and 111 tell 
you, but you must not tell anybody/' 
" All right/ 1 said Marytary, 
" Honour bright? JS said Johnny* 
" Honour bright," said Marytary. 
" Honest Indian ? " 
M Yes/' said Marytary. 
M Dying solemn ? " 

" Yes/' said Marytary, and it all meant 
that Marytary had promised not to tell anyone 
Johnny's secrets, and it is what boys say at 
school and Marytary knew what it meant. 
" I've run away from, school/' said Johnny. 
" Oh, Johnny ! ,f said Marytary, M you ought 
not to have done that ; it's very, very 
naughty, because mummy told me/* 

said Johnny, 
"'Old Blims' 
— and that is 
the master, 
and we call 
him * Blims ' 
because his 
eyelids are so 
red — was 
going to pun- 
ish me be- 
cause I broke 
the balusters; 
but I did not 
mean to, and 
another boy 
pushed* me ; 
and I said if 
he punished 
me I would 
run away, so 
he took all 
my clothes 
when I was 
all the other 
Blims' room 


in bed, and then I got up when 

boys were asleep, and went to 

and took his coat and his trousers. He folds 

them up and puts them in his chair, and he 

does look so iumiy when he is asleep with a 

ban4.iHtV^!'JH i TY^^^feW , 'lAH his mouth wide 

open, and that's why Buck Fenton used to go 






and put little shavings of soap into it — but he's 
left the school now. Then I put on the clothes 
as well as I could, and I took a hat from the hall 
so that no one would know me, and I think it 
is Lady Grcs ham's (and that is the third master) ; 
but 1 made a noise opening the door, because 
when I got outside there was old Blims with 
his head out of the window staring down at 
me, so I ran ; and after 1 had gone a long way 
T heard old Blims running after me< Old 
BLims can run like a hare; you can see all the 
cups he has won in the Blimmery — that's his 
study* you know/ 1 

" But why didn't he catch you then, Johnny ? " 
" Why," said Johnny, " I crawled through 
the hedge so that he never saw me. Oh, Mary- 
tary I you should have seen him come rushing 
by as hard as he could go, and he hadn't any 
coat on, only his shirt and trousers, and he 
did look so funny. And quite soon he came 
ruining back again to try and find me in the 
other direction, and some men laughed at him, 
and a dog ran at him too, and nearly bit him/" 
" Oh, Johnny ! And what did you do then ? " 
w Why, I walked across the fields to the 
railway, and there were a lot of empty coal- 
trucks, and so I got into one because it was 
marked, ' Return empty Rudber>% J and walked 
out here." 

" But what are you going to do now ? " 
Marytary asked* 

"lam going to hide/' 

" But where are yon going to hide ? " said 

" I am going to hide here, and then you can 
bring me my dinner and tea, and no one will 
know where I am." 

i4 Oh/ J said Marytary, " that would be 
naughty I You should not have run away from 

" No/' said Johnny* " I know I should not 
have run away from school ; and I know that I 
am naughty; but you have not run away from 
school, and so you will not be naughty/ 1 

11 But I shall help you to be naughty, and that 
will make me naughty too/ J said Marytary; 
and I think she was quite right, don't you ? 

But Johnny said : " You promised honour 
bright and honest Indian dying solemn, that 
you would not tell anyone my secret, Marytary* 
and if you don't hide me it will be just the same 
as telling, because they will find me and it will 
be your fault, and I didn't think you would 
hit a fellow when he is down " — -and that is wliat 
boys say, and it means that you should not 
be unkind to anyone who is in trouble. 

Now poor Marytary did not know what to 
do, because, if she did not hide Johnny, he would 
be found out and punished all through her, 
and she knew Johnny Peascod would always 
do anything to help her if she w T antcd him to. 

So at last Marytary said : — 

M All right, Johnny, I will hide you as long 
as I Can/ 1 but she chd not feel happy, because 
she knew she could not teli her mother what 
she was doing. 

Now where was Marytary going to hide him ? 

" Hide me in a box," said Johnny. 

" But you cannot hide in a box all day long/ 1 
said Marytary* if I think the best place would 
be in the box -room, where all the boxes and old 
furniture are kept/' 

So they went upstairs ever so quietly, but 
when they came to the bath-room Johnny went 
in to wash himself because he was so dirty, 
and he made the basin all black, and two towels 
black, and the white paint on the door showed 
the marks of his black ringers. 

Then they went right upstairs to the v^ry 
top of the house* and Marytary unlocked the 
door of the box -room f and Johnny said ; — 

" This is top-hole/' and it is what grown-up 
men say and it means that it could not be nicer. 

11 You see/ 1 said Johnny, " I can make a 
bed out of the carpets, and a table out of one 
of the boxes, and this chair is quite comfortable. 
I can put up the screen, and if anyone comes 
I shall be belund the screen, and I shall hear 
them unlock the door and I can get into tills 
big trunk unliJ they go away." 

So that was all right. 

Then Johnny said, fl Oh, do get me some 

" It will not be breakfast for hours and hours," 



said Marytary, " but I will get you something 
to eat." 

So she went down to the larder, and there 
was a very nice cutlet with crumbs all over 
it, but quite cold, that had been left over from 
dinner the night before ; and there was a fine 
big ham, and it was all covered with brown 
bread-crumbs too, and it was quite new, and 
no one had cut it. So Marytary took the cutlet 
and two nice slices out of the ham, and a big piece 
of bread, and a cupful of milk that was in a 
jug with a cloth over it to prevent the flies 
getting into it, and that was Johnny's breakfast, 
and he liked it very much because he was so 

Then Marytary locked the door and went 
down to the bath-room and tried to clean 
away the black marks Johnny had left, and 
she did, very nearly, but her mother heard 
her, and called out : " Are you getting up, 
Marytary ? " 

And Marytary said : " Yes, I am just going 
to," for she really was, but she did not feel at 
all nice because she could not tell her mother 
what she was doing. 

At breakfast her mother said : — 

" You were up very early this morning, Mary- 

And Marytary said : " Yes, mummy," and 
got very red, because she knew she was hiding 
something from her mother, but her mother 
only said : — 

" Really ! I don't think they ought to cut 
the ham in the kitchen," because she saw the 
ham with the two slices cut out. This made 
Marytary feel not at all nice. 

After breakfast Marytary went off to school 
with her books, and poor Johnny did not get 
any dinner because Marytary did not come home 
to dinner and no one knew Johnny was in the 
box-room. But when Marytary came back 
she took a lot of bread and butter and cake 
upstairs for Johnny's tea, but only water for 
him to drink. And she unlocked the door very 
quietly and said : " It's only me, Johnny," 
and she went and looked behind the screen, 
and Johnny had made himself a lovely little 
real tent with chairs and boxes piled up and a 
carpet spread over, and inside there was a 
nice bed made of fcarpet and a mattress with 
the stuffing coming out. But Johnny was not 
in the tent ! 

So Marytary looked in the trunk, but Johnny 
was not there, and she was just going out when 
she heard Johnny whistle, so then she knew he 
was hiding. She hunted everywhere, and at last 
Johnny's hand came up out of a mattress that 
was rolled up and standing on its end. Johnny 
had got in at the top and slipped in legs first and 
wriggled himself down, so that no one could 
find him. But Marytary could not wait ; she 
had to go downstairs to her own tea because 
someone might ask where she was, and come 
and look for her. 

Now, as her mother was out, Marytary 
thought she would like to have her tea in the 
kitchen with Jane, for a treat. And Jane was 
not at all cheerful, but ate her bread and butter 

without saying a single word except when 
Marytary asked her a question. 

So Marytary said : " What is the matter, 
Jane t You look as if you wanted to cry." 

" Well, miss," said Jane, " I am not a crying 
one, but if I was I should be likely to be crying 

" Why, what's the matter, Jane ? " 

" Why, miss, it's like this. Your mother 
says quite serious to me, ' I don t like to see 
things helped in the kitchen before they come 
to the table,* and I says, ' No, of course, not ' ; 
and your mother says, ' Well, please remember 
it, Jane/ and I did not say anything, but after- 
wards I went and gave warning. I don't like 
being spoke to like that, and if your mother 
thinks I could do such a thing, she might as 
well tell me to go at once." 

" Do you mean that you are going, Jane ? " 

" Yes, miss." 

" Oh, but you mustn't, Jane. It was the ham 
I cut before breakfast, and mummy thought 
you had cut it." 

" Well, now, you must tell your mother," 
said Jane, " because I would not have your 
mother think I had done a thing like that." 

" I will tell her soon, Jane, but I cannot tell 
her now," sa^d Marytary, for she knew that if 
she did tell, her mother would want to know 
why she cut the ham. Jane could not under- 
stand why Marytary should say that she did 
not want to tell her mother she had cut the ham, 
so then Marytary told her it was a great secret, 
and she was to promise not to tell anyone, and 
Jane promised honour bright, honest Indian, 
dying solemn, and Marytary told her all 
about little Johnny Peascod running away 
from school and how he was hiding up in the 

Then Jane was so pleased, you would not 
believe ; she laughed, and said what a nice 
young gentleman Master Johnny was, and how 
she loved him, she did, for being such a little 

Now Jane never told anyone about Johnny, 
and Johnny did not mind when Marytary told 
him why she had told Jane, and he was very 
glad next day because Jane brought him a 
nice breakfast, and she brought him his dinner, 
too, or he would not have had any. because 
Marytary was at school. And another thing 
Jane did was to cut down old Blims* trousers to 
make them fit Johnny as well as possible, but 
she could not alter the coat, so she got an old 
coat of Marytary 's, which was like a sailor's 
coat, with brass buttons, and it made as good 
a coat for a little boy as for a little girl. 

The next afternoon when Marytary was 
coming home from school, and was quite near 
her home, she heard Johnny Peascod whistle 
quite close, out of doors, and she knew it was 
Johnny Peascod because the way he whistled 
was different from the way anyone else whistled, 
and it was a signal to her. 

Marytary looked everywhere and could not 
see him, but the whistling went on, and at last 
she looked up, and there was JittJe Johnny right 
up on the roof peeping round behind the big 





chimney, Now, did you ever hear of such a 

thing ? Marytary ran quietly up to the box-room, 

and there was Johnny in his little tent pre- 
tending to be 

asleep. But 


said : — 


promise not to 

go out on the 

roof again, I 

will go down 

and tell rnum- 
myall about it 

because it is so 

So Johnny 

promised, but 

he said : w I 

must go out, 

Marytary* 1 

can't stay here 

all day." 
"But if you 

go out you will 

be caught/' 

said Marytary, 
*' I will go 

out at night, 

then, when it 

is dark/* 

Did you ever 

hear of such a 

thing? I never 

did, I'm sure, 

had tea with 

lier mummy ; 

and,, after- 
wards, when 

she was being put to 

bed, Rose told her that 

Master Johnny had run 

away from school, for 

there was a notice stuck 

up on a wall in Rudbery p and 

it said a reward of twenty-five 

pounds would be given to any- 
one who would tell where Johnny 
Peas cod was. 

And Rose said : " I wish 1 
knew where Master Johnny is. 
be an easy way oi earning a tidy little bit. 
I could do with a tidy bit, I don't think/* 
but Rose never talked like that when 
Marytary 'a mummy was there, and I don't 
think it was a pretty way to speak. 

But Marytary did not go to sleep, for she 
had promised to let Johnny out ; and after a 
Jong time she got up and went upstairs in her 
dressing-gown, and she and Johnny crept down- 
stairs, and she let Johnny out very quietly. 

It was very early in the morning, before the 
birds begin to chirp, when Marytary was aroused 
by Johnny throwing stones up against her 
window, and she went down and let him in 
and he looked very tired and was rather muddy. 
So Marytary asked him what he had been doing, 

all alone, at night. And he said lie had been 
to the theatre, without paying, by hiding behind 
a big lady ; and then when he came out he saw 
a man with a shop on wheels and a pony to 
drag it. who was in the street, and he was selling 
hot Co flee and eakc and boiled peas with lots 
of vinegar and pepper* delirious ! And Johnny 
had helped the man to pour out the cofiee 
and put the vinegar on the peas, so the man 
^ave Johnny some peas for nothing, and when 
lie went home Johnny drove in the shop on 
wheels with him. Alter that Johnny met 
two men who caught a lot of rabbits in little 
nets that they put in the hedges, until they 
saw another man, and then they ran away 
and Johnny had come home, and lie was very 
sleepy, and begged for something to eat 
because he was very hungry, 

So Marytary locked him 

up in the box-room and then 

went down to the larder, but 

she was sleepy, and all she 

gave Johnny was some cold 

porridge in an old envelope* 

and Johnny was cross, and 

Marytary went back to bed, 

but she did not sleep because 

she was so unhappy. 

When Marytary went to see Johnny up 

n the box-room before she went to school, 

she told Mm about the notice that Rose 

had seen posted up on the wall in Rudbery, 

because she thought it would make Johnny 

sorry and that he would be a good boy and 

|| give himself up. 

But Johnny only laughed and said: "Oh* 
what a lark : do bring one home, Marytary." 
And Marytary was rather angry because he 
was so naughty* 

When Marytary got into Rudbery she saw 
the notice stuck up on the walls, and it said : 
fi No tice. —Whereas John Fortes cue Peascod, 
aged seven years and two months, has run 
away from school at High Wycombe House, 
BrjurneCombc at midnight on May iSth last, 



Original from 



i 9 3 


now it is declared that a reward of twenty-five 
pounds will be paid to the person or persons 
who shall give information which shall lead 
to the discovery of the said John Fortescue 
Peascod. In witness whereof we have here- 
unto set our hands and seals in our own presences 
while we were present and in the presence of 
each other while present at the same time, 
the day month and year herein first above 
written s'help us, pip, pip, God save the King." 

And then there was a photograph of Johnny 
taken when he was a little long-clothes baby, 
and it said that he was of a " ruddy complexion " 
and that " when last seen he was wearing 
coat and trousers belonging to or previously 
in the possession of or understood or reputed 
to be the property of and known to have been 
worn by the Rev. Whitmarsh Chamberlain 
Swelterham Williams, M.A., Cantab, and a hat, 
cap, head covering or ' tile ' the property 
of General Frederick Pinkerton, K.C.D., 
P.C.F.D., L.P.O.D.K.L., late Commandant of 
His Majesty's forces at Purnkdorp." 

Now Marytary did not know what all this 
meant, but she understood that twenty-five 
pounds would be paid to anyone who found 
Johnny Peascod. When she got home and 
went, after tea, to see little Johnny, he said :— 

" I've got a secret, Marytary." 

And Marytary said : " What is it ? " 

" Why, won't it be a joke ! I am going to 
give myself up to the police, and then I shall 
get the reward." 

" I don't think they would give it to you, 

" Why not ? " 

" Because you are Johnny Peascod, and you 
cannot find yourself, because you never lost 
yourself. " 

"Well," said Johnny, "you go and get the 
reward, and then you can give it to me." 

" No," said Marytary, " you are a horrid 
little boy. I am not going to tell anybody 
that I have been biding you, and you are not 
to tell anyone either." 

" Well," said Johnny, " you must let me out 
now, and I will go and get the reward." 

" But someone will see you and they will 
get the reward." 

" No," said Johnny. " I can put this big hat 
right over my eyes and no one will see my face." 

So Marytary let Johnny out, and she was 
very glad to think that she would not have to 
hide him any more. 

Johnny trotted off, and when he went into 
the police-station there was only one policeman, 
and he had not got any helmet on at all, 
and he was sitting at a desk writing in a 
great big book, and he had spectacles, so I 
think he was a very clever policeman. 

41 I've come," said Johnny, " to get the 

" Which reward ? " said the policeman, 
for, you see, there were lots of people lost, 
and there were lots of rewards to be had if you 
knew where they were. 

" The reward for John Fortescue Peascod," 
S -lid Johnny, because it said it on the notice. 

" That's all very well," said the policeman, 
" but where is he ? " 

" I will tell you when you have given me the 
reward," said Johnny. 

" But if I give you the reward," said the 
policeman, " perhaps it would not be Peascod 
but someone else you had mistaken for him." 

" No," said Johnny. " I know him ever so 
well, and perhaps if I took you to him you would 
not give me the reward." 

Jhe policeman stared at Johnny and bit his 
pen for a long time without speaking, and then 
he got up so suddenly that Johnny thought he 
was going to put him in prison, because police- 
men do that sometimes ; but he only opened 
a door and said something, and another police- 
man came in with his tunic unbuttoned, so I 
think he was just going to bed; and he had no 
helmet on either, and he had not any spectacles, 
but his head was quite bald, so I think he was 
a clever policeman too. 

And the policeman with the spectacles told 
the policeman with the bald head all that Johnny 
had said, and they both stared at him. Then 
the policeman with the bald head said : " Do 
you know where this person, John Fortescue 
Peascod, is ? " 

And Johnny said : •" Yes, of course I do." 

" Is he in Rudbcry ? " 

And Johnny said : " Yes," because he was 
Johnny Peascod himself. 

" Is it far from here ? " 

" No," said Johnny, " quite close," because 
he was there all the time. 

Then the policeman with the bald head took 
a key out of his pocket, and it was fastened to 
his belt by a chain so that no one could take 
it away from him, and he unlocked a door all 
made of iron, and took out a round leather bag 
as big as a cricket ball, with a big red seal on 
it, so that you could not open the bag without 
breaking the seal, and then people would know 
you had opened it ; and he gave the bag to 
Johnny, and it was so heavy Johnny nearly 
dropped it because it was full of golden sovereigns, 
and gold is very heavy indeed. 

" Now, my boy," said the policeman, "' we 
will come with you, and if you do not produce 
Johnny Peascod we will take the reward away 
again. Where is he ? " 

44 Here," said Johnny. 

" What do you mean by ' here/ " asked the 
policeman in spectacles. 

"In this room," said Johnny. 

Then both the policemen got very excited. 

" Shut the door," cried the one with the bald 
head, and they began looking under the chairs 
and tables and in the cupboard and coal-scuttle 
till the spectacles fell off and the bald head 
grew pink. 

" Johnny Peascod isn't here," they said at 

" Oh, yes, he is," said Johnny. 

" Where is he, then ? " 

" Here," said Johnny, slapping his chest. " 1 
am Johnny Fortescue Peascod." 

Pbli:emon.|"^VeOfeV^ surprised at anything, 
because if they were they would be surprised 



many times every day, and would not be able 
to do their work properly. So they looked at 
Johnny, and the one with spectacles put them 
uei and said : — 

11 Ail right, very good. But you cannot have 
the reward, because by Act of Parliament no 
man can be lost to himself, and so he cannot 
hnd himself." 

But Johnny said : " I am not a man, I am 
a little boy, and you have already given me the 
Ttward t and you said I might keep it if J pro- 
duced Johnny Peas cod, and I have produced 

Then the policemen talked together and read 
m a big book to find out what to do. 

Then they said : "Wc do not believe you 
r.rc Juhn Furtescue Peascod, You will have to 
1 :-l security in a citizen of good repute 
kiViWii to all peoples, and being esteemed in 

that was not his real name — and Marytary saw 
him. And in the afternoon Johnny drove away 
in another cab with old BJims, and he would 
not even look at Marytary, and it was because 
he felt ashamed, so I think that Johhny was a 
good boy again and was really sorry for what 
he had done, for he had gi% r en great pain 
and anxiety to lots of grown-up people 
who loved him, and who dreaded that harm 
should come to the dear little boy they loved 
so much, 

And the greatest harm that could come to 
Johnny would be that he should grow up into 
a big boy who would not 
respect his masters, and 
who would run away from 
school* But Johnny was 
only a little boy, and he 
learned to be good, And 

'then both the policemen got very excited, and began looking under the chairs 
and tables and in the cupboard and coal -scuttle,*' 

ihe public knowledge of all men. so help you, 
pip, pip/* because it said it in the book, 

w What does that mean ? " said Johnny* 

But they did not know, 

' We want to make sure that you are really 
Juhnny Pcascod." they said. 

"Of course I am," said Johnny; "come 
home and they will tell you/* 

So off they started. 

As they were going along they went by 
'. post-office, so Johnny asked if he might go 
in, and then he put all his money into the 
^vings-bank, and that was clever of him, 
because you cannot get your money out of the 
^vings-bank until you are twenty-one years 
old, and that is a long time, and no one can 
take it away. 

Now this is not quite the end of the story, 
because next morning a man, whose hair was 

little grey because he was really quite kind 
■>H the time, drove up in a cart very quickly to 
Johnny's house, and it was old Blims — but 

I am sure he was punished, because he deserved 
it ; but I do not want to know in what way he was 
punished, because I love him t and I feci very sorry. 

And little Marytary felt quite nice and good 
again, because directly little Johnny went to 
claim the reward, Marytary told her mother all 
that she had done ; and her mother said she was 
naughty, but she was not at all angry, and she 
kissed her and forgave her, and made Marytary 
feel happy again ; and her mother never told 
anyone what Marytary had done ; and Jane — 
who, of course, did not go, and is still there 
— never told anyone, so tt is is the first time 
that anyone knows where Johnny Peascod hid. 

Johnny did not keep the reward, because 
he did not want to ; so he gave it all back, and 
the savings-bank let him, because it was the 
right thing to do, and a bank always tries to 
do what is right. 

Now this has^i^9fl f ^prjpj^M|png story, and it 

-jt-vfas all very 






I AM reminded that when I presented the lt Four 

Pennies Puzzle *' in our issue of February last I pro* 

raised to give a slightly more difficult variation of the 

problem Liter on. Here it is ; but it is perhaps easier 

than it would have 
been without the 
publication of its pre- 
decessor, Lay six 
pennies on the table, 
and then arrange them 
as shown by the .sir 
white circles in the 
illustration, so that 
if a seventh penny 
(the black circle) were 
produced it could be 
dropped in the centre 
and exactly touch 
each of the six* It is 
required to get it ex.ict, without any dependence on 
the eye. Io this case you are not allowed to lilt any 
penny off the table— otherwise there would be no 
puzzle at all- — -nor can any measuring or marking be 
employed. You require only the six pennies, 

Here is another of those u unsolved " enigmas 
that are being frequently sent to me. It is said to be 
by S:r Walter Scott, I will give next month the best 
answer that I can find. Perhaps readers can find a 
better one, 

Sir Hilary fought at Agincourt, 
Troth l 'twas an awful day* 
And though in that wild age of sport 
The tri tiers of the camp and court 

Found little time to pray, 
Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there 
Two syllables by way cf prayer. 

The fir it to all ihe gay and proud 

Who see to-morrow's sun ; 
Th- next with its lone quiet cloud, 
To those who meet their dewy shroud 

Before the day is done ; 
The whole to those whose br'ght blue eyes 
WVep wben a warrior nobly dies. 

FOLD this page, so that the bottom outside corner 
touches the inside edge and the crease is the shortest 
possible. That is about as simple a question as we 
could put, but it will puzzle a good many readers to 
discover just where to make that fold, I give two 

examples of folding. It will be seen that the crease 
A B is considerably longer than C D, but the latter 

is nut the -hnrliM possibfe. 

A MEJtCHAKT noticed the cuiiuis fact that when 
he doubled £6 13s. it became £13 6s. — thus merely 
exchanging the pounds and the shillings* He tried 
hard to discover another amount of money that bad 
the same peculiarity, using jimv multiplier whatever, 
but failed. Yet there is such another case* Gin ytu 
find it ? 

Solutions to Last Month's Puzzles. 

Tue illustration explains itself. Wherever ytu 
mark o(T a square 9 by 9, the nine queens ecnta ned 
in it will all be free ircm attack by another queen. 

Given last month's diagram, all you had to do was to 
move every queen one square to the rights except 
the one that was marked A, which is transferred to 
a place, one square lower, in the first column* 

The dog's speed was 16 miles per hour, I have no* 
space to show the method of work ng, but the folio w^ 
ing facts will give the reader clues to the general 
solution. The distance remaining to be walked side 
by side with the dog was Si feet, the fourth power 
cf 3 (for the dog returned four times), and the distance 
to the end of road was 62 5 feet, the fourth powei 
cf 5. Then the difference between the speeds <in 
miles per hour) of man and dog {that is, ia) and the 
sum of the speeds (20) must be in the same ratio, 
3 to 5, as is the case* 

Tki worth are as follows, in their order: Ejght 
bifrht, light, night, wight, might, right, sight, tight, 


If a square number terminates jn similar digits 
those ditfiis must be 4, as in the case of 144* the square 
of 12* But tliere cannot be more than three equal 
diEiWdl^BR^Tl^^^M- ^L s r+Kft^#l answer is 1444, the 
square of j& 






Sm Pag* 22, 





When you 
have read 
this copy 
pass it on 
to a friend. 










L ,f .l 



Drawing ty Wittw HVdrmi* 

Dri-ped Leather's Services* 

No a J 3, —The Queue Habit. 

All the world has stood in queues ; buying 
sugar, butter, meat, matches, has been at times 
similar to the method of securing a theatre 
seat ; and war-time shortages have engendered 
a serious habit of w Queue-crawling/' which a* 
the same time has had Xhz beneficial effect of 
demonstrating the remarkable wet-resisting 
power of tj Dri-ped " Sole Leather. 

Dri-ped Sole Leather It waterproof, 
double-wearing, light, and flexible. 

RtAOlLY OBTAlNABL€.~Gwlne to th* 
cessation of Army requirements. Dri-ped 
Leather can now be readily obtained 
Do not be put off, 

ITS ECONOMY it greatly accentuated by 
the high prices of ordinary leather and of 
footwear, Dri-ped Leather saves re-soling 
charges and new-boot bills. 

CAUTION.— Insist on Ori ped Leather 
tales, but see that the Purple Diamond 
Trade Mark it stamped every few inches 
on each sole. Without U r the leather is 
a substitute. 

Sole Proprietors \ 

rD - Orrainatfroi-ff 01TON ' Lancs - 

" Orljain 

(T,:<lf Piopi ietur*. Wm. Walker Sl JjpjiS-^ji.) 


(""rw^fjL'' Original from 



r . Original from 

■ } h *** ** "rtlWERSITYOF MICHIGAN 



SEPT. 1919. VOL. 58. NO. 345. 


HAT sort of coil," said the 
visitor named Sowerby, " is 
the most infernal nuisance. 
Yes, and indeed. Every un- 
fortunate concerned gets a 
splash of the mud, and it 
doesn't come off at a brush, 
but may stick for years. I 

have a most vivid remembrance — - 

He checked himself as if interrupted by the 
band on the lawns before the sea, which had just 
burst into the Fishermen's Chorus from " Masa- 
niello," but in reality prudence had hinted that 
he was on marshy ground. 

Dinner was over in the Brighton pension, and 
the smoke lounge, which had a balcony command- 
ing the Esplanade,- had attracted eight or nine 
men - to its comfortable chairs. * Someone had 
read a paragraph in the evening paper concern- 
ing the loss of a London hostess's rope of pearls 
at a reception, and this had started Sowerby. 

" Well, carry on,'- urged a listener. " You 
have a vivid- — -" 

" It was at Mrs. Lacey Hatchman's that the 
horrible thing happened," continued the other, 
consenting, slowly Refilling his pipe. " Of 
course I am altering names. She was giving a 
small dance at her house in Bolton Street. 
During the fiftK waltz her partner, a yourg man 
named Cartlett, called the lady's attention to 
the fact that one of her bracelets was becoming 
unfastened. To avoid interrupting the waltz, 
Mrs. Hatchroan, after slipping off the ornament, 
reached out as she passed a bronze figure on a 
pedestal and dropped the bracelet. just behind 
the" statue, on the smooth onyx top of the 
pedestal. She forgot the incident until a couple 
of /hours later, ^hen she discovered that the 
bracelet was not there. 

" Nothing could be more commonplace than 
this part of my story. The sequel, however, is 
in the highest degree unusual. 

** Was the trinket valuable ? Fairly, for the 
gold drclet had an emerald clasp, and was worth 
about two hundred pounds ; also the owner ^as 
attached to it by a strong bond of sentiment. 
The loss, was discovered before the guests de- 
parted, although Mrs. Lacey Hatchmah tried to 
keep it dark ; it created a most painful sensation. 

" The guests left ; weeks passed ; the brace- 
let was not forthcoming. One of the company 
had helped himself, or herself, to it. That was 
daylight-clear. Someone had committed a de- 
spicable action. Which one ? For a few hun- 
dred pounds a callous and guilty band had tossed 
the mire of suspicion over the entire company. 
It was an abominable thing to occur amongst 
such a set. Thoroughly appreciate that point. 
Like a sort of poison vapour, a mephitic gas, 
suspicion hung about each one of the guests. It 
might be an impalpable shred, but there it was. 
VoL IviiL— 13. Copyright, 1919, 




W.D&/ar. J . 

Q u Illustrated b, 

Wherever he or she went, the episode of the 
stolen jewel was scarcely to be alluded to by the 
diplomatic. No tactless chatterer could mention 
it and not cause a twinge of mental pain to the 
party who had been present. It couldn't' be 
said, with an absolute finality, ' Oh, he could 
never have done that shameful thing, for con- 
sider his social position I ' That couldn't be 
said, because every guest there filled a decent 
niche in society. Therefore Mrs. Lacey Hatch- 
man was profoundly anxious to have the mystery 
cleared up. Bitterly *. she regretted the in- 
cautious exclamation which had made her loss 
known. But it was too late. The mischief had 
been done. Beyond argument one of her patty 
was a thief. 

*' A month later I met Cartlett again. He 
was the only one of Mrs. Hatchman's company 
I have named. I must now mention another — 
Oswald Creery. I met them both together. ' 

" It was at a garden party in town, when 
Colonel Pennent, who was then in Parliament, 
was entertaining a hundred or so of his con- 
stituents. You know those popalar affairs — 
when Brown, Jones, and Robinson receive a 
card requesting the honour of their company, 
with wife and daughter. They stroll, delighted, 
over their member's lawns, consume his refresh- 
ments, are introduced to his friends. 

" Both Creery and Cartlett turned up. This 
was by nc means because they were tickled by 
being included in the general invitation. They 
were on very intimate terms with the Colonel ; 
indeed, both men wished, above all things, to 
marry Marjorie Pennent, the Colonel's daughter, 
and the very apple of his eye. And as Marjone 
was easily the nost beautiful attraction at the 
garden party, with a charming smile for the very 
humblest there, you will comprehend why 
Cartlett and his rival Creery were present. For 
each other they had no word, and only fierce 
looks, being on the worst possible terms ; but I 
am coming to that. 

" The tree-shadows were growing gigantic 
under the setting sun when I found myself, in 
my wanderings round the place, near to a copse 
of beeches, in a remote corner of the estate. Far 
behind me I heard the music of a string orchestra 
which was playing on a balcony, and an occa- 
sional peal of laughter. The cool, dim shade of 
the beeches was iuviting n and I was peering for 
a plank bridge to cross the brook between me 
and the trees, when the shouted words, ' I say 

by L J. Beeston. 




that you lie ! ' rang from the coppice like the 
crack of a pistol. 

" Shocked, I recognized Cartlett's voice, raised 
ii blazing anger. I could not catch a response, 
llut that did not surprise me. Oswald Creery 
*ould never descend to shouting. And the 
other man was most certainly he. 

" Ought I to interfere ? Only in the last 
extremity. I found my plank bridge and started 
to cross it into the little wood. 

" I was well aware that the quarrel might end 
most unpleasantly. I have said that the men 
both wanted Marjorie Pennent, but that was not 
the only matter of discord. Both were opposing 
litigants in a will suit. 

" You know what that means. The power to 
canker, to corrode the heart, which lies in a dis- 
puted legacy ; the sense of wrong rankling like 
snake-bite. Now those two men seemed fated 
to cross each other. They had been mutually 
hostile for years. So you can understand, at the 
time of which I am speaking, that they hated 
each other fairly exhaustively. 

" Hated ? My word I when I rushed in upon 
their privacy they had got even beyond that. 
It was the ominous thud of a blow which sent 
me forward at a run. There they were, Creery 
with his hands round his enemy's throat, and 
Cartlett beating his clenched fists upon the other's 
ashen face. 

" Creery, who looked red murder, let go as I 
rushed in, and Cartlett reeled back, just about 
half strangled. 

" The banal question, .' Have you gone mad, 
gentlemen ? ' flew to my lips. They did not 
reply to it ; they did not even look at me. 
Breathing hard, hoarsely, they glared at each 
other, both their faces not a healthy crimson, but 
pale, pallid as death. 

" Creery panted, ' We will settle this some 
other time.' 

" ' Now — now I ' gasped Cartlett, trembling 
with concentrated passion. 

" ' And why not ? ' I demanded, harshly, 
keeping between them, looking from one fury to 
the other. ' But not by insensate violence. 
Allow me to suggest a far more effectual manner 
of duel/ gentlemen.' 

" I spoke, of course, on the impulse of the 
moment. An extraordinary idea had occurred 
to me." 

The narrator paused at this juncture in his 
story, dropped his pipe in his pocket, and got up 
to look down from the balcony, his brows con- 
tracted in deep reflection, as if he doubted the 
wisdom of continuing. With immense Mat the 
band on the lawns finished off the " Masaniello " 
selection, and the plunge of the sea on the shingle 
became again audible. 

" A quite extraordinary notion," Sowerby 
repeated at last, wheeling abruptly and dropping 
into another chair. " Born without seeking, 
without desire. 

" As I addressed them Cartlett treated me to 
a ' Damn your interference ! ' glare ; but Creery, 
his lips writhing in a sort of derisive, wicked 
smile, gave me answer : ' May I ask what the 
devil you mean ? ' 

" ' Simply, gentlemen,' I replied, with em- 
phasis, ' that if you must come to grips — and I 
admit that it seems an essential — black eyes and 
bloody noses will not help you. Unfortunately 
— or the reverse — measured paces and levelled 
pistols are not permitted to you in this country. 
Believing, however, that yor would unhesi- 
tatingly have recourse to them if it were possible 
— in other words, that each one of you wishes to 
extinguish the other — I will place before you 
my proposition.' 

" If my words had provoked a laugh I should 
have known better than to continue ; but the 
two of them, their faces still white and grim, 
waited for me to go on. 

" ' Gentlemen, I must in the first place remind 
you of a painful episode which came near to us 
all,' I added, impressively. ' I allude to the 
theft of Mrs. Lacey Hatchman's jewelled brace- 
let, which still — the mystery uncleared — reflects 
upon every guest present at that dance, as it is 
bound to do, and is the cause of even deeper 
distress to the lady chiefly concerned. Now, 
what I want to say is this : If the guilty person 
admitted his wrong — even in a strictly private 
fashion — it would snap the wretched tension 
which now exists, would make every guest 
breathe in a normal and healthy manner, and 
would roll a big weight of care from Mrs. Lacey 
Hatchman's mind.' 

" When I had said that I paused to note the 
effect, cautious of proceeding through not being 
sure how my idea would act upon them. I 
believe that Creery had a glimmering of it already, 
for his brows went up, and he fetched the next 
breath in a little gasp. Not so Cartlett, who 
flashed on me, with hot impatience : ' What the 
deuce is this to do with me ? ' 

" ' Obviously, the man who stole the bracelet 
will not own to it,' I continued, watching him 

" ' Oh, go to blazes I ' he rapped out. 

" I went on, steadily, putting aside his fierce- 
ness : ' On the other hand, if someone who is per- 
fectly innocent of that unspeakably mean theft 
chooses, for the sake of the others, to take the 
guilt upon himself— why, he performs such an 
act of self-sacrifice as never was, and never will 

" At that point Creery burst out : ' God ! I 
get you now ; I follow you. You mean that 
one of us ' 

" ' Shall own to it — yes,' I interrupted, my 
eyes still upon Cartlett. ' I suggest that you 
settle the difference between you, now, here, 
once and for always, by leaving to pure chance 
which one of you shall take the burden on his 
shoulders. You will do it with eyes wide open 
to the consequences. The loser in this duel will 
not, indeed, suffer loss of life ; he will not be 
buried with a pistol ball in his head ; but he will 
be almost as effectually and permanently- ex- 

" Again I paused. Cartlett was staring at 
me in a wild way, his mouth open, his wits dazed 
by my propo*;:' tkn, 

'l IhjY^ 1 *^ outi *°y ^ €?LV ^ n J ' said Creery. 
'" ' Obliterated,' I added. 




'* ' Run clean through/ continued Creeo, ■ wiih 
a hard, rasping laugh. I was sure that he would 
accept the terms, because he took a cigarette 
from his case and Lighted up with studied non- 

" He was brave* Make no mistake about that* 
Of a good family, he was attached to one of the 
Embassies in London., and his prospects were 
roseate- Cart let t was a j'oung barrister, already 
well up the ladder. To claim the ownership of 
the crime would mean ugly consequences for 
either of them. And among those consequences 
the loss of Marjorie Fennent would go without 
saying* If they had time to think it over 
they would turn my proposal down, sure enough ; 
but just now they were white hot with fury and 
ready for a mad impulse, 

" ' Cartlett, have you the pluck ? * cried his 
enemy, ^tha biting sneer, 

M Still Cartlett said not a word, but stood with 
his eyes fixed gloomily upon the ground* 

" I continued, with cold deliberation : ' All 
that is necessary is for me to go to Mrs. Lacey 
Hatch man and tell her that lam sent by one of 
you to confess to taking her emerald bracelet. 
Nothing more will be required, No written 
admission of guilt will be called for- There is no 
reason why she should doubt the confession. 
She will not prosecute, for you are, both of you, 
ber friends. All she wishes to do is to relieve 
the sufferings of hex guests who were present at 
the dance* and who are so involuntarily impli- 

cated in the deplorable affair* Since neither of 
you gentlemen really did take the jewel it cannot 
be returned — and she will certainly demand its 
return. Let that pass. I shall inform her that the 
confessed culprit sold it in a secret market abroad, 
and I shall add that I will go after it. Later 
on I must admit defeat ; must say that the 
jewel has passed through undercurrents and 

fi * * Mrs* Lacey Hatch man will not prosecute — ■ 
no ; but the steps she will follow we can, I feel 
sure* take for granted. She will not go about 
announcing publicly the name of the supposed 
guilty person } but she will whisper it in one or 
two influential places, with a view to removing 
from innocent heads the nimbus of suspicion 
which now crowns them, That will serve her 
purpose. But you must perceive* in the strongest 
light, what will happen to the one whose name I 
take to her. He will be shunned first in that 
quarter, then in this ] he will be dropped here — - 
there. So-and-so set will give him their backs * 
such-and-such circle will change the subject 
when his name is mentioned. In plain terms, 
he takes a dive down below the surface of that 
society where he has been swimming hitherto, 
and he will not come up again 1 ' 

■' ' So much the better for the other,' snarled 
Creery, behind his cigarette smoke. ' Cartlett. 
are you game ? * 

" It reminded me of Mercutio's * Tybalt, will 
you w?4k ? * 

1 a I from 


20 6 



" Cartlctt, whose face was white as milk, 
whose sombre eyes refused to look up, answered, 
huskily, * How do you propose to settle it ? ' 

" ' By the spin of a coin/ I answered* taking 
half a crown from my pocket, - One of you calls. 
Head or tail/ 

" ' Good enough for me/ Creery growled. 
4 Spin it up. Cartlett, you call. If — ■ — ■* 

"If he is wrong, he loses/ I interrupted, 

"The white coin hummed as I flicked it high 
into the air* 

" ' Head 1 ' exclaimed Cartlett, hoarsely, as the 
Coin started to come down, 

" Head it was. Creery looked at it for a 
second or two, tossed aside his cigarette, turned 
on his heel, and went off. True metal. Not a 
whimper ; not a curse/* 

There was a buzz of sensation as the narrator 
finished, His jaws snapped upon his last sen- 
tence, and with dramatic slowness he struck a 

match for his pipe, which he had withdrawn 
from his pocket on finishing his story. He 
leaned back, puffing serenely. Presumably he 
had concluded. 

" And Creery went right through it ? " de- 
manded a listener. 

" Certainly he went right through it. He 
had to." 

11 Good heavens 1 " exclaimed another, 

" One cannot fight duels without getting 
mauled," said Sowerby, tranquilly* " It was 
just as real a Jive combat as if the men fought 
with weapons ; and, in a way, much more satis- 
factory, A body left on the ground makes a 
barbarous business. And then Creery was a 
man who could adjust himself to circum- 
stances, being a philosopher. He went to one 
of the colonies, became a farmer there* and 
is doing rarely well. Don't you worry about 
Creery, ' ' 

"WHi'HttttY d&MHuHIS*#l culprit think- 

whoever he was — when he gathered that an 



innocent man had owned up ? " demanded a 
third auditor. 

" God only knows," said Sowerby, laconically. 

" And that is the end of the story ? " asked a 
fourth man. 

" Practically." 

" What do you mean — practically ? " 

The narrator chuckled, silently amused. After 
a short silence, during which all waited expec- 
tantly, he leaned forward, looking at his audience 
in turn, and said : — 

" There is a little more to add. Now, suppose 
you gentlemen call upon your imaginations and 
guess the rest of my tale ? You won 't succeed ; 
but try." 

He had scarcely put this interesting proposal 
before one man flashed : "I've got it ! Creery 
turned out to be the real stealer of the bracelet ! " 

" A too hasty answer ; therefore the wrong 
one. Next ! ■" 

There was a longer pause. Suddenly another 
ventured : — 

" Cartlett had it all the time ? " 

"Bah 1 Be more original ! " scoffed Sowerby. 

A longer silence followed this rebuff. It was 
broken by an eager exclamation. 

" Mrs. Lacey Hatchman never really lost the 
jewel! It was found, later on, by her in her 
house I " 

: " Not bad," smiled Sowerby. " A smart 
theory which, unluckily, has the disadvantage 
of .being^quite off the metals. Who's next ? " 

" You had taken it yourself," beamed another, 

There was a roar of laughter. 

" A nasty one, that," chuckled Sowerby. 
" Perhaps I was- asking for it. But I can see, 
gentlemen, that I shall have to come to your 

assistance. The sequel — although we can scarcely 
call it that — is as follows : — 

" I was, at that time, a detective — a private 
detective. Mrs. Lacey Hatchman employed me 
to do my best to clear up the most unpleasant 
affair of the stolen bracelet. I was at Colonel 
Pennent's garden party simply because two of 
the guests who had been at the dance — Cartlett 
and Creery — were there. I did not suspect 
either of them particularly, but I had them under 
my professional eye just as I had watched some 
of the others. My case had baffled me. I had 
given up hope of clearing the mystery. And I 
therefore embraced with eagerness the inspira- 
tion which made me score a success, and justified 
the employment of my services." 

A murmur of astonishment went round. 

" Good heavens I " exclaimed a listener, in a 
tone of some disapproval. " You deliberately " 

" And why not ? " interrupted the narrator, 
with strong emphasis. " The results following 
my idea were excellent. The characters of the 
guests at the dance, on which a sort of smudge 
rested, were absolutely cleared — save Creery*s. 
A great point gained. Then, as I said, I scored 
personally ; which meant much to me at that 
time. Then Cartlett. his rival deleted, married 
Marjorie — a most happy match, and much more 
so, I venture to think, than if Creery had got her. 
Finally, gentlemen, one must always remember 
that the bracelet was stolen ; and no one here 
can affirm with absolute certainty that Creery 
was not the culprit ! 

" I consider that all that is plain and con- 
vincing. I'll go and finish my pipe on the lawns. 
The band is playing Chaminade music — much 
more to my fancy than that stodgy ' Masaniello ' 


{The Third 0/ the Series.) 

What native does not thank his goii 

That it is now no more ? 
Bleed ins from cruel Teuton rods. 

He'll live to bless the war. 

1. A language that some people strivo 
Officiously to keep alive. 

2. Add head and tail, and you'll be able 
To see the author of a fable. 

3. Name of a party in the state — 
Is it already out of date ? 

4. You'll find it, or I'm much mistaken, 
Not many miles from Copenhagen. 

5. A suffragette of long ago. 

And river all the schoolboys know. 

6. An answer given to a request. 
Though not the one that pleases be3t. 


Answers to Acrostic No. 69 should be addressed to the 
Acrostic Editor, Thk Strand Magazine, Southampton 

Street, Strand, London, W.C.2, and must arrive not later 
than by the first post on September 10th. 

To every lujht one alternative answer may be sent ; it 
should be written at the side. At the foot of his answer every 
solver should write hi* pseudonym and nothing else. 

Answer to No. 67. 



u n 








e a 















to No. 68. 






c e n 




a s 












a i 




e r 

Correspondents who write to the Acrostic Editor and 
desire answers to th*ir queries should enclose a stamped 
addressed ouvciope with their letters, and the A. E. will 
endeavour to ropiy. Lack ok space makes it impossible 
to answer in print. 




as a 


By the American Golf Champion 

As reported hi 
C/ All isoi\ Gravis 

ilhstrahons by 

Mtife** / J,M *V*ai***. m „ Alfred Leefe 

_*»'» ^*****i 


OME shrewd, keen -eyed business 
men were recently discussing 
the testa which arc: being used 
by progressive firms in picking 
employes. They agreed as to 
the value of this new method, 
at least in showing such traits 
of character as alertness and 
decisiveness. But they questioned whether 
they would reveal certain other fundamental 
qualities* such as pluck or patience, Finally 
one of them said : — 

44 There is one test which I think is absolutely 
reliable when it comes to finding out the real 
stuff a man is made of." 

M Well, what is it ? " demanded the rest, in 

" Play some game with him ! " was the em- 
phatic answer. " It doesn't make much dif- 
ference what it is ; golf, or tennis ( or billiards, 
or bridge. If you play with him — or watch 
him play— often enough, so that you are sure of 
catching Mm occasionally off his guard, you will 
know him pretty thoroughly* If I were plan- 
ning to take an associate in business, or even a 
subordinate, I'd like to make that test the 
preliminary to the transaction. 

" I'll go even farther than that. If my 
daughter wanted to marry a man* I'd like to 
submit him to the same trial* Thirty-six holes 
of golf would show me most of the things I'd 
want to know about him," 

I happened to be a listener to this conversa- 
tion, and it decidedly roused 'my interest. 
Thirty-six holes of golf as a test of character 1 
That was a new idea. Why not ask some man 
who has played thirty-six thousand holes what 
he thinks about it? "Chick" Evans* holder 
of both the National Open Championship and 
the National Amateur Championship, ought to 
know whether golf shows up a man as he really 
is. All right ! I'd ask him. 

Evans is young— not yet twenty-nine : but 
he has known the game of golf since he first 
made its acquaintance as a caddy at the Edge* 

water Golf Club when he was only eight years 
old. He began really to play when he was 
twelve* and he has been at it ever since. 

He is a fine, up-standing chap ; clear-skinned 
and clear-eyed, eager, alert, and smiling. As 
secretary of a firm of investment bankers he has 
an office in a Chicago skyscraper. And there is 
one thing in that office which must be men- 
tioned if you are really to know " Chick * J Evans. 
It is a certain framed photograph on the wall, 
I hadn't been in the room two minutes before 
he called my attention to it, 

" Do you know who that is ? " he asked, with 
the smile of a boy about to give' you a Christmas 
present, " That's my mother 1 She's my ' only 
girl/ From her, and from the game of golf, I 




20 9 

got my training. 
And if I didn't 
amount to any- 
thingit wouldn't 
be their fault ; 
because they are 
the best teachers 
in the world. 

" Of course/* 
with a satisfied 
laugh, ** I think 
nobody else has 
a mother like 
mine. But they 
can't help that. 
Almost any* 
body, however, 
can find the 
chance to play 
golf. And it is 
\j worth the time 
' and expense, 
tion. I've 
learned a good 
many things on 
the golf course 
that are not 
taught in a 

Jf£N ' LET THEMSELVES GO * "For in* 



M Well, self-control is one thing, I guess I 
must have been bom with a bad temper. At any 
rate, I had one, I was quick and nervous and 
excitable. When I began to play in tournaments 
ray nerves were so on edge that I aividn't sleep 
the nights before a match. When I got up at 
the tec, ready to drive, I %vould shake so that I 
could hardly stand. In those days I had to fight 
my temper to keep it from running away with 
me. I did fight it, because I was determined to 
make a golf player out of 
myself ; and I knew I had 
to choose between the two. 

" The man who gives way 
to his temper is a common 
figure on the golf course — -but 
you don't often find him in 
the finals. He may play bril- 
liantly' at times ; but if he 
wastes his energy and nervous 
force throwing his clubs 
around and kicking up the 
turf he won't have many 
championship cups to carry 
home with him. 

" Temper is just a form 
of self-indulgence, anyway, t 
and a good many men have learned to deny 
themselves that particular luxury when thej 
are at business* But it they let themselves 
go when they get out on. the links you may be 
sure that their self-control is only superficial. 
They haven't really mastered the little devil 
inside of them. 

" It is a funny thing how men do * let them- 

selves go * when they play golf. They get out 
into the open in more ways than one* They 
may camouflage their real natures pretty success- 
fully when you meet them socially or in business, 
but they seem to drop all that sort of thing in a 
game* It is just as if they took off their mental 
and moral clothes when they took off their 
business suit* 

" In one way, golf is different from any other 
game* Do you realize that it is the only one, 
so far as I can remember, where you win entirely 
by your skill and your mental and moral qualities, 
with now and then some help from luck or chance ? 
You do not really fight your opponent, as in 
other games. You stand or fall by what you do 
—not by what you do to him. 

" In tennis, you serve the balls to your oppo- 
nent and return them to him. And you can 
defeat him by placing the ball where he can't 
get it. In billiards you can leave the balls in an 
unfavourable position for him. In football, you 
can actually measure your physical strength and 
speed and cleverness against his. In basket- 
ball, in chess and draughts, in bridge, or any 
other card games* you can force him to make 
plays which beat him. 

But in golf, your antagonist plays his own 
ball and you play yours. There is only one 
time when your ball can be so placed as to inter- 
fere with his ; but when that happens, it Is by 
accident, never by design. I refer to what is 
called a ' stymie.' In putting, one player's ball 
sometimes fails to go into the hole and lies 
exactly in the way of the opponent's ball. But 
no one ever brings this about intentionally. It 
is the result of the failure of his own shot, 

** There is one way in which a player can at 
least try to interfere with his opponent's game ; 
but it is unfair practice, and a man who followed 
it would lose his standing on the links. Suppose 
you were playing with a man, and you knew that 
he had some little trait of character which 
you could use to make him nervous. Maybe it 

Original from 

•• n m^wMmiL* to him 




upsets him ii people speak to him when he? 
is about to make a shot. If, knowing that, you 
addressed some remark to him just as he w<ls 
' ad dressing J the ball, you might disturb his 
balance enough to cause him to top the ball. In 
the end it might make him lose that hole, 

" There are always opportunities to play on 
your opponent's weakness in some such subtle 
■way as this ; but to use them is considered un- 
sportsmanlike. A man who would resort to 
them in a serious match would be condemned by 

"Even the 'gallery* of spectators is expected 
to observe this unwritten rule. Contrast a golf 
tournament, for instance, with a football or a 
baseball game. At a football match there is 
organized cheering. Anybody with enough Lung 
power can shout encouragement or derision to 
the players. At a baseball game you can josh 
a team to your heart's content. But the spec- 
tators at a golf tournament are expected to keep 

" Several years ago the English golfer, Hilton, 
was playing a match with Fred Herreshoff, and 
there was a large gallery following the game, As 
the two men walked along from one point to 
another some of the spectators joined Hilton and 
began asking him questions. Of course he 
answered them; it was evident that they did 
not intend any discourtesy. Quite the contrary. 
But when Herreshoff noticed what was going on 
he immediately went to the man in charge and 
protested. He knew that this conversation, which 
was being forced on Hilton, might unfavourably 
affect his (Hilton's) playing, Herreshoff wanted 
it stopped ; and it was. That was an example 
of good sportsmanship. 

"I think the commonest fault which men 
show on the golf course is temper, or some form 
of lack of self-control. A man comes up to the 
tee for his drive, slices his ball, perhaps, and it 







goes into the rough. What does he do ? Well, 
if there isn't a gallery around, he often breaks 
loose with a perfect torrent of violent language, 

A friend of mine told me of a match he 
played with a man of tins type. The mail liter* 
ally cussed his way from one hole to the next* 
Once, when he had made a bad shot, he slam- 
med his club against a tree and broke the 
shaft to pieces* Of course my friend beat him, 
with two holes still to go, The custom is to 
keep on and play the remaining holes anyway. 
But when the result was decided at the sixteenth 
hole my friend put his clubs in the bag and 
started back to the house, 

1 Aren't you going to 
play the other holes ? ' the 
man called after him. 

" ' No/ was the calm 

H ' What's the matter ? r 
"'I don't care to play 
any more/ my friend said, 
quietly, and went on. 

" Everybody knew why 
he didn't care to finish the 
course. They went to him 
afterwards and told him 
he did just right, And it 
wasn't many months 
before the man who hadn't 
enough self -respect to 
control his temper in a 
game of golf dropped out 
of that club, 

" Another fault which 
is pretty sure to show 
itself on the links is con- 
ceit, I have seen a good 
many promising young 

Only the humble in spirit 



can improve their playing ; and young golfers, 
if they arc at all successful, are likely to set 
too great a value on their game. 

" By humility I don't mean timidity, lack oi 
belief in yourself. It is just the same in golf that 
it is in business, or in anything else for that 
matter. You have got to have the courage to 
attempt things, and the confidence that you can 
win, or at least make a good showing. But if 
you get to the point where you think you know 
£ all, and can't learn anything from others and 
from your own experience, you're finished, 

rt It would be irritating to play with a very 
conceited man if you didn't train yourself to be 
amused instead, He is "both a poor laser and a 
bad winner* If you beat him, he always has a 
long post-mortem hat of excuses and explanations 
to account for it- And if he beats you, he either 
patronizes you or crows over you< When he 
loses, he has a grouch. When he wins, he has a 
strut- When he loses, he is black. When he 
wins, he is beaming. If you see a man who takes 
his failure or his success that way you may be 
certain that he always thinks first of himself. I 
shouldn't like to be his wife or his partner in 

" One trait which shows itself in golf more 
than in any other outdoor game is concentra- 
tion. You have just one thing to think about 
— that little ball. You alone are to decide where 
it is to go. Nobody can alter its movements ; 
they are absolutely in your hands. A man should 
be able to concentrate every faculty of mind and 
body on each shot as he makes it* 

" Even when he is %valking forward after a 
shot his mind must be busy with what he is 
going to do next. He must know the * lie ' of 
his ball, decide on the character of his next shot, 
and choose mentally the kind of club he is going 
to use. It calls for both judgment and decision* 
as well as for concentration. 

" That is the reason why golfers do not like to 
talk while they are walking forward between 
shots- I believe some people criticize me be- 
cause* even in a tournament , I speak to my 
friends among the spectators. They tliiiik it 
betrays a lack of concentration on my part. If I 
say * Halloa, Jim ! * to somebody, they think my 
mind isn't on the . game as it 
should be, 

" They cite Jerome Travers, for 
instance. And certainly T ravers 
is an example of supreme con- 
centration. To the onlooker it 
seems as if the game were a life 
and death affair to him* He 
never smiles, never speaks. And 
there is Walter J. Travis, who, 
whether winning or losing, never 
iails to play with cool and care- 
ful precision. He, too, rarely 
smiles, and almost never speaks. 

,r But you cannot always judge 
of a man's concentration by his 
outward demeanour. Back in the 
days when, as I said before, I 
could not sleep when a match 
Was on and shook with nervous- 

ness when I got to the tee, I don't remember 
that anybody remarked it. But after I had 
schooled myself so that I slept like a baby before 
a big match, and had gained self-control in 
playing, some of the critics began to talk of my 
being ' nervous/ 

" Maybe I fool them the same way when it is 
a matter of concentration- It is a natural re- 
action for me, when I see a friend , to say ' Halloa, 
Jim 1 ' Tli ere would be more of a conscious 
mental effort if I did not say it. As for concen- 
trating, we do that, too, according to our tem- 
perament. When I start forward after a shot I 
am sizing up the situation intently. But when 
I have decided what I am going to do next — well, 
I've decided. Then it is natural for me to look 

,f On the putting-green concentration is more 
necessary than at any other point in the game. 
And a man's ability in putting is a good gauge 
of his mental control* For the benefit of those 
who do not lavow golf, let me explain that the 
putting-green is the square of fine, close turf 
around the hole — the little four-and-a-quarter- 
inch opening into which the ball must be sent. 
And a ' putt * is a stroke on this green. It is the 
most delicate one in the game. It calls for relaxed 
muscles in the arms and wrists ; and even a 
slight twitch, or any lack of perfect freedom, will 
spoil the stroke. 

*' Character shows itself on the putting-green \ 
A man may be a good driver, he may like the big 
s%ving and the feeling of starting some tiling. But 
it is on the green that he shows his power to 
negotiate a delicate and difficult transaction, to 
keep hi mself well in hand until a thing is done. In 
a championship he has to do this under the most 
difficult conditions. Several hundred spectators 
stand round, watching him with breathless 
interest- He knows that probably a good many 
of them have money on the game. And there 
is a psychological effect from all this to which it 
is very hard to be insensible* He must shut out 
even the consciousness of the spectators being 
there. If he cannot do that, the mere sound 
of a chance remark, of a woman's laugh, or 
the half -seen movement of a parasol, may cause 
him to miss his putt. 

11 I should say that a man 
who is good on the putting-green 
is one who would be good in a 
business emergency requiring 
a cool head, control 'oi nerves, 
and absolute concentration. It 
doesn't require quick thinking 
or initiative- But it is the 
supreme test of steadiness. It 
shows you the man who doesn't 
go to pieces under a strain. 

rW litik Ldi ■ om ^ 




. f£ Here is an interesting idea : I believe that 
in playing in a tournament men show them- 
selves more as they are in business ; and that, 
in playing what you might call a social game, 
just for the exercise and the relaxation, they 
show their real personality. 

" You see* a tournament is business, for the 
time being. It is played for compensation — a 
title, a silver cup. And involuntarily a man puts 
his business self into it- He is conscious that he 
is under observation, that he is being judged by 
outsiders, and he shows more self-control and is 
more careful, both in- his game and in his self- 
expression, than he is when just playing for 

"All the same, you cannot watch a man 
through several loumaments without getting a 
good line on his character. There is Robert 
Gardner> for instance, * Bobby * Gardner, as his 
hosts of friends call him* I think he has the very 
perfection of manner on the links. He is always 
cheerful, always courteous. In playing with 
hinx P even in a match, you never lose sight of the 
fact that golf is a game, a friendly contest of skid, 
a mutual experience in sportsmanship. Nelson 
Whitney, of New Orleans* is another golfer with 
the same characteristics. And I could name 
many others whose fine qualities I know through 
golf as I could scarcely have learned them in any 
other way of association, 

* You will not often find a man with a ' yellow 
streak ' playing golf. In the first place, I don't 
think the game appeals to that type of man. 
And in the second place, the traditions and ideals 
of the game are so high that the * yellow p player 
would not last long in a club. Of course there are 
chances for trickery and dishonesty in golf, just 
as there are in any game, from bean -bags to base- 
ball. But in spite of the fact that there are 

fewer rules to guard against these things in golf 
than in any other organised game, I think it is 
the cleanest sport in the world. 

" There is an interesting story Apropos of this 
point. When the game was introduced into the 
United States we Americans went into it with 
characteristic energy and with the typical 
Yankee concern about winning. A man was 
telling me about it the other day, and he said 
that the players here were very keen then about 
rules. They insisted on the pound of flesh, so 
to speak, for every technical infraction. They 
watched each other like hawks, and claimed the 
limit in penalties for anything and everything, 

11 For instance, even in a casual friendly game, 
one man would say that another had * soled ' 
his club in a bunker-shot— tltat is, touched 
his club to the ground when he was supposed 
not to — -and would stop the play to argue 
about it, 

" The rules here were those used by the Ancient 
and Honourable St, Andrews Golf Club in Scot- 
land, and probably hadn't been revised for a 
hundred years or more. These punctilious 
players, who wanted everything to be regulated 
by the book, went to Mr, David Forgan. in 
Chicago — himself a Scotsman and an excellent 
golfer -and set up a howl about getting the rules 
revised. They wanted them brought up to date, 
they said, so that every possible point would be 
covered. Mi\ Forgan* told them that if the game 
of golf had to have printed rules in order to make 
men conduct themselves like honest gentlemen 
he'd quit playing it ; and that ended the matter, 

" The result is that ' tradition ' has proved far 
more compelling than a five-foot shelf of rules 
would be. And the tricky and dishonest man is 
less common, and much more uncomfortable, on 
the golf course than almost anywhere else. 

"it is on the putting-green that a man WHft^'^W SF^KhHfi^tt" HIMSELF "' rl '- 




" I have kept one important point for the last. 
It is this : Never quit until the game is irre- 
trievably lost I The man who does is a fool as 
well as a coward. Every golfer with much ex- 
perience can tell you of games that have been 
won by the player who, at some stage, seemed 
hopelessly beaten* It doesn't pay to give up, 
and it shows a fault in character as well, A 
game is not lost until the last hole is played ; or 
at least not until the shot which actually finishes 
it is made. Yet I know men who feel beaten 
when the game is just begun. 

" - In Minneapolis, in 1910, I was playing in the 
Western Amateur against Robert Hunter ; and 
Warren K. Wood, a well-known golfer, was 
caddying for me. On the thirty-seventh hole 
Hunter was on the green in two, while my drive 
went into a bunker, my second into another 
bunker, and my third failed even to get out. If 
ever a man seemed justified in picking up his ball 
and quitting, I did. And I confess that I started 
to do so. But Warren objected, and I followed 
his advice. 

" The result was that my next shot landed on 
the green, and in two putts I holed out, while 
Hunter took four, which made us even again. In 
the end I won on the thirty-ninth hole* This 
was an extreme case, but it shows that the quitter 
deserves to lose if he stops before he is actually 

44 A man told me not long ago that he and two 
other young players were being sized up once by 
an experienced golfer as championship possi- 
bilities. The wise old fellow looked them over 
keenly — he hadn't even seen them play — and 
delivered his ultimatum. 

" ' There's only one of you that has the making 
of a real champion/ he said. * For there's only 
one that has the necessary iron in his soul/ 

"Ina way, he was right, A man must have 
iron - in his soul r to stay and win in almost any 

contest, As a rule, the cool, self-poised, silent 
type makes the best golfer. The assured, easy* 
talking, dashing type is likely to be erratic But 
the iron may be in a man even though he is not 
hard and cold. Gardner is the proof of that, to 
name only one example, And there is Francis 
Ouimet, who is boyishly cheerful when not play- 
ing, and is always pleasant and friendly during 
the game. 

" A man has got to show one trait in golf, per- 
haps more than in other games, and that is self- 
reliance. For nobody can help him, except with 
advice. There is no team work. You can*t 
score on anybody else's hit* You haven't any 
guard, or protection, or assistance. Nobody 
* sacrifices N that you may gain. 

M Perhaps, just on this account, most golfers 
have some pet superstition, some mascot, to which 
they cling. I suppose it is the ineradicable 
human instinct to play something besides a 
solitary game against fortune. Most of these 
golf whims centre around clothes. I remembeT 
that in my early days I wore a certain sweater 
until it literally left me by pieces, because I 
thought it was ' lucky/ I know other players 
who invariably take a bath and change every 
article of their clothing for the afternoon round 
if they have lost in the morning* 

" As my game became steadier my super- 
stitions lost their hold on nie. But I still have a 
few left. For instance, just before I went to 
Minneapolis for the National Open Champion- 
ship tournament, a friend gave me a little charm 
he had brought from Hawaii. I won. But, 
believe me, I did not rely entirely upon the good 
luck charm S However, I confess that I carried 
it to Merlon for the National Amateur Champion- 
ship, and I won again. While I do not attribute 
my victories to that talisman — for I worked hard 
for them— the little figure and I have been ot\ 
very good terms ever since* 1 ' 





■ » . - Original from , " 






TLifl is a problem story. Was Philip Kearney riffht or wrong in acting a* 

lie Aid ? What is your opinion? 


EARNEY sat waiting for Beatrice 
Cat heart. His interest in seeing 
her again, thus, in London, after 
all that he knew of had passed 
in Africa, was acute ; but he 
was not impatient for her rather 
lardy appearance. He could sit 
watching this crowd lor hours. 
Himself, he was unmistakable — the type of 
well-bred rover that only England turns out 
in this pattern ; tall, well-made, any age between 
thirty and forty-five ; brawn as a boot, groomed 
like a Derby winner, clothed right, shod right, 
barbered right. Two days ago he had landed, 
wired a few perfectly good lies to some clamorous 
relations in Devonshire, gone straight as an 
arrow to town, looked into his clubs, visited his 
tailor, his bootmaker, his hosier, and his hair* 
dresser ; asked what sort of dance the jazz 
was, turned to his notebook for the names and 
addresses of the women he knew three years 
ago, and then said, " Why, poor Beatrice I 
She's home again ! " Systematic telephoning 
did the rest, and he found her. 

This restaurant was good enough. He could 
sit watching this crowd for hours, absolute 
hours — - — But suddenly she came into the 
great vestibule. 

He saw her before she saw him. She had 
gone very thin- She moved quietly and list- 
lessly. She was nicely turned out as ever, but 
the life had left her* He had seen women look 
like Beatrice before, She looked lost, A man 
had told him, out on the Zambezi, that she had 
taken Perry's death awfully hard* He saw that 
it was indeed true, 

They clasped hands- " Well ? " he said, 
smiling down at her* " It is splendid to see 
you again, Mrs, Cathcart." 

Her fingers clung, perhaps unconsciously. 
" And splendid to see you. Let's see. We 
haven't met since two months before he " 

Copyright, iqiq, by 

" I went up the Zambezi, as you know, with, 
some men." 

u I know. Am I a little late for lunch ? A 
dressmaker kept me." 

" Orlando won't have given away my table, 
I think. Shall we go in and see ? " But tho 
great head -waiter was already advancing upon 
them with his most confidential smile. 

* £ How are you, Orlando ? ,# said Kearney. 

Head- waiters in the best hotels half over the 
world knew Kearney, He was that kind of 
man. Now Orlando, with Ids most compli- 
mentary deference for Beatrice, himself ushered 
them to their table. "It is nearly four years 
since you honoured me. Mr. Kearney/' he said, " I 
was dee-lighted to hear your voice over ze 'phone 
zis morning. I haf for you ze same table. * 

M I ordered lunch," said Kearney. 

" It was cooked to the mce-nute, Mr + Kearney," 

Kearney studied Beatrice, She was taking 
off white gloves slowly, finger by finger* and 
glancing round her. 

M I've forgotten everyone/' he said. " Anyone 
you know here ? " 

Beatrice looked at him, and her eyes arrested 

11 I ? " she said. *' Know anyone ? No one 
knows me, Philip." 

She called him by his first name unconsciously. 
It was the way she thought of all poor Perry's 

Kearney could have bitten out his tongue* 
But then Orlando came with a menial, and 
pleasant serving commenced, Kearney looked 
thoughtfully through a wine -list, saying to 
himself I "Of course 1 Poor girl 1 " And the 
thought of his own relations, especially the 
Devonshire ones, flitted through his mind. 

He looked at Beatrice again carefully, He 
knew wo^iaftltTOiclPIB a broad statement, but 

" She needs to talk, he thought. 

May Ed gin ton. 



" Well, Beatrice," he said, when she had 
eaten and drank, and, had a touch of the old 
eagerness in her eyes, " how's life ? " 

" Philip ! " 

" Pretty rotten, eh ? " 

She nodded. 

" Is it the good people trying to make a little 
Hades for you ? " 

She nodded. 

" Bum 'em I " said Kearney. " Do you care ? " 

" It's lonely, Philip." 

" Yes," said Kearney ; " a woman must 
have friends — women friends. Yes. My dear 
Beatrice, why did you come home ? " 

" It was lonely, Philip." 

" My GocI, it must have been, my dear ! " 
said Kearney. In a swift vision he saw her 
there alone with her dead ; not widow, nor wife. 
When she had buried Perry — what a loneliness ! 
No, Africa had nothing for her. 

" So you came home ? " 

" I thought a few people — the ones I had 
cared for — might still " 

" And they didn't ? " 

" I wrote to Lilian Malcolm — we were at 
school together ; great friends in our early 
married days. She wrote me a long letter back 
— she's very, very good, Philip " 

" Won't receive you ? " 

She shook her head. 

" You mean Tom Malcolm's wife ? " 

*' Yes. 1 * 

" And your husband — Cathcart ? " 

" He died three months ago." 

" Leaving you well provided for — better than 
poor Perry could ? " 

" No. When he refused divorce he swore 
he'd never give me a penny. I'm poor. Still " 

She made a gesture, signifying, " That doesn't 

■' Ah ! " said Kearney. 

" Philip," she said, " you know we loved each 
other very much. It was a wonderful life 
together. He showed me what God meant 
when He made woman and gave her to man. 
We were so happy ! There wasn't a thing in 
the world which didn't seem somehow beautiful. 
But now, Philip, there is no springtime any 
more in the world ; I am always alone ; it is 
always cold. He has gone. I am dead too." 

" No, my child," said Kearney, very gently. 
" You are young yet." 

" You mean there is still a long way to go." 

" Beatrice," he said, " I am older than yon, 
not only in years, but in the ways in which men 
are always older than women, the old ways of 
wickedness and wisdom, my child. You want 
friends, my dear ; you want sympathy, and kind 
houses opened to you, and decent women — 
however, what I gather from you puts one a 
little out of conceit with the typical decent 
woman for the moment. God ! Aren't they 
stones I " He filled her glass. " Drink to your 
future, Beatrice ; because you'll have to carry 
on. And here's luck to you, my dear ! " 

Before he left her, after arranging to take her 
to this and that — the Academy, the Horse Show, 
a theatre, a supper-club — she had a little colour 

in her white cheeks, though he had not driven 
the wistful look from her eyes. Kearney thought 
of his good friend, Perry — how he had worshipped 
her I He would have died to bring her any 
delight. But he had died, poor fellow, and 
brought her disgrace. 

" Hang respectable married women I " said 
Kearney, thinking of Lady Malcolm. 

He did not know her. He had just a faint 
memory or idea that she was one of those women 
who push a dull husband into Parliament ; hunt 
one or two days a week in winter ; come up to 
do the season ; have a certain number of shooting 
parties ; a family of a certain number also ; and 
who administer the feminine side of a country 
estate the rest of the year. 

" That will be her ! " said Kearney. " Confound 
her ! " 

He knew that under* her wing Beatrice could 
creep back into toleration. But these* good 
women — they folded their wings up tight ! 
Afraid of harbouring waifs ! 

It just happened that some man at his club, 
refusing a suggestion for bridge that evening, 
remarked to Kearney, " If one sits down to 
play you know what it is. . . . And I promised 
to look in at Lady Malcolm's." 

Kearney had nowhere in particular to go; 
and he did not care where he went, anyway. 
Nine o'clock found him well-dined, waiting in 
the club lounge for a taxi. A telephone directory 
had given him the address in Chester Place. He 
drove there, thinking in a sort of vagrant fashion 
of half-remembered faces, dim forgotten hours. 
London streets raised many ghosts. Other 
streets of widely differing genre could do the 
same : Stamboul ; Johannesburg ; Moscow ; 
Delhi ; Vienna ; Paris ; and then the wild 
places. . • . But to-night a thread of thought 
linked all these. In all these places, the thought 
ran, people were the same ; women the same. 

He took a resolve about little Beatrice 
Cathcart. " For Perry's sake," he said to him- 
self. Then the taxi-cab stopped in a line of 
cars and carriages. 

The door of the Malcolms' house was open, 
and a stream of people trickling in. There were 
pretty dt'butantes unknown to him, and a few 
men who were passing acquaintances. He fol- 
lowed them in, gave up his hat and coat, and 
walked upstairs with unruffled aplomb. So 
little an adventure, strolling into the house of 
a perfectly strange hostess ! It was tame. All 
the same, beside his resentment about Beatrice, 
he felt a certain contemptuous curiosity, which, 
almost directly, was satisfied. 

Lilian Malcolm stood in the doorway of a 
great room, shaking hands and smiling. Beyond 
one could see a good dancing floor. An orchestra 
played. Kearney paused before Lady Malcolm. 

She was as he had expected ; in the thirties, 
already set in mind and body ; rather florid ; 
healthy ; placid ; with a well-bred smile ; a stiff 
style of hairdressing, and a conservative gown. 

Kearney shook hands with her, saw her eye 
pause on him uncertainly, then passed on and 
stood agauiut the vrall imide the; room. 

They were dancing. 



He watched Lady Malcolm from time to time. 
Her healthy and nice-featured face was devoid 
of all potentiality for emotion. Kearney knew 
women. He guessed her at once. " She has 
never been tempted," he said to himself, " and 
she sits in judgment. There is no cocksureness 
like the cocksureness of a prude." 

Half an hour later, when the incoming stream 
of people had thinned and ceased. Lady Malcolm 
found beside her the most attractive looking 
man who had ever lingered there. She was not 
a woman who allured men ; she was the com- 
plete opposite of the Beatrice ilk. 

" I have been watching you," he said, smiling. 

She replied rather abruptly : " I know you 
have," and then, to cover the admission, fell 
back upon humbug, as he knew she would. 
11 My poor husband is at the House ; let me see, 
you've met him " 

" I want to tell you about it," said Kearney, 
" if we may dance. May I have a dance ? As 
a matter of fact, you have a great deal to forgive 
me for, but, believe me, I have only just realized 

Many times after Lilian Malcolm said to her- 
self : " Did I say I'd dance with him or not ? " 
but she could never remember. He took her 
for granted. She suspected him for a stranger ; 
had done so when he first came in ; and yet 
when he put an arm around her, and they began 
to dance, he was strange no longer. 

She knew nothing of men as lovers. She 
attracted none. She was rigidly unversed. 

Kearney made his confession. " I'm at the 
wrong house." He explained easily and fluently 
how it could have arisen ; she learned he was 
only just back in England ; a chance word or 
two betrayed that he should be, even now, 
staying with his cousins, the Devonshire Garths. 
That satisfactorily fixed him in her inquiring 
mind. He was perfectly all right. 

He had met Sir Tom now and again. They 
belonged to the same club. 

When the last guest had gone, Lilian Malcolm 
went to bed. Dawn stole up the London streets, 
and the sparrows were chirping outside, but in 
her bedroom the electric lights were full on, and 
she went and looked at herself long in the glass, 
turning this way and that. She was unusually 
long in undressing, hindered by thoughts which 
took no form. Kearney particularly wanted to 
take her to see a certain South African picture 
in a certain exhibition the next afternoon, and 
so, of course, he was coming to lunch. 

As it happened he would be the only guest. 

It was not until they stood together before 
the picture that Kearney mentioned Beatrice, 
and then only because, he explained, the picture 
suggested her to him. 

" Did you ever know a Mrs. Cathcart ? 
Beatrice Cathcart ? She ran away from an 
uncongenial husband with a frightfully good 
chap, a friend of mine, Reginald Perry. I met 
them both out there. They had a farm on the* 
veldt, and good heavens ! weren't they happy I 
Then Perry died, and she's back here, I believe. 
Do you know her ? " 

" I knew her years ago," said Lady Malcolm, 

coldly. " But she will hardly take up her old 
life again. A woman who loses her head like 
she did must expect to pay for it." 

" I suppose you women are right about that," 
reflected Kearney, soberly. Then he talked 
charmingly of other things, so charmingly that 
she forgot the allusion to Beatrice until they 
were back again in the Chester Place house, and 
she was giving him tea . 

She sat in an easy chair ; he stood on the 
hearthrug looking down at her. She knew all 
the time, without looking at him, that he was 
looking at her. Suddenly he made two quick 
steps, was near her, and, bending down, he put 
a hand on the arm of her chair. 

" Have you," he said, softly and vibrantly, 
" never lost your head ? " 

She had to look up at him. Her breath went. 
It was the queerest sensatior, almost devastating. 

" I ? " she uttered. " N-no. Certainly not. 
How do you mean ? If you m-m-m-mean " 

Her voice trailed away. It was ridiculous. 
She was extremely vexed with herself. 

" You give me permission to say really what 
I do mean ? " said Kearney, very close to her. 

She was silent. Her own silence disturbed 

" I have permission ? " said Kearney, tri- 
umphantly. That particular triumph had never 
come into a man's voice before for her, and she 
sensed it with a thrill that she instantly subdued. 
He took permission. " I mean, you've never 
been in love. You've lost the wonder of the 
world — a woman like you ! " His tone ex- 
pressed infinite homage. *' Oh, Lilian ! " he 
said, breathlessly. " I think you are the most 
wonderful woman I've ever met ; and I've met 
women in many countries. And, Lilian, I 
thank God for that blessed mistake last night ! M 

Lilian Malcolm knew of several things she 
might have said : " You're a complete stranger, 
Mr. Kearney. . . . You must not call me by 
my first name. . . . You must not talk like 
this." The things remained unsaid. They were 
too trite, altogether too little, too silly. And 
yet, the longer she remained silent, the more she 
committed herself. So at length she just moved 
restlessly in her chair and murmured something 
that was nothing. 

She felt him watching her, and her heart beat. 

" Do you mind my saying that ? " he asked. 

" No," she said, " no, of course not. How 
absurd ! Have some more tea." 

Kearney was an absolute master of the right 
moment. He knew both by natural gifts and 
by experience how and when to pause. 

" Thanks, dear little lady," he said. She was 
not little ; the adjective was an added endear- 
ment. He had some more tea. 

They talked of people both knew ; he told her 
expurgated little stories of his life. He left 
reluctantly about six-thirty. It had been a 
very long visit, and yet — very short. 

Lilian was going out with her husband. She 
went upstairs to dress. The room was empty; 
her maid was in the bathroom preparing a bath. 
Lilian walke^'alp|prw«r tflf^jen glass. Her face 
was radiant "| ' 'her e>s shone. She gazed at 



herself ; quite good hair, quite good features — 
and yet her appearance was surely taking on 
prematurely a too matronly expression ? She 
thought of one or two slim, exotic women whom 
she countenanced frostily but never approved. 
Site thought of their clothes, " It is a good thing 
to change one's dressmaker now and again," she 
said to herself. She suddenly began singing 
sqUq voce, 

Tom came in* sleek and burly. 

"Cheerful you sound," he said, "singing 
away all to yourself." 

fl Was I singing ? " 

Most of the evening she was thinking inter- 
mittently \ "I wonder if we're likely to meet 
again ? So that I can thank him for the sweet 
flowers* That wandering kind of man — so 
busy ." 

Next morning, when her bedside telephone 
whirred* she knew, in her half-sleep, who was 
at the other end of the wire, It was quite early 
—only half -pap t eight — which made an ordinary 
telephone call seem charmingly impetuous. 
The fact that he had almost nothing to say, 
after all, added to the impetuosity, 

" Halloa! " 


" Like a baity thrush, VU be ready at 
tcven -thirty/' 

He went out. 

She smiled unknowingly, 

" I'm not going to let that man come here 
very often/' she thought- 

The maid came in with an armful of 

"These have just arrived h my lady + There 
is no card." 

Lady Malcolm took them in her arms. She 
needed no message to tell her who had sent 
them. He must have gone straight from her 
md bought the flowers. She remembered she 
did not know his private address, Letters 
■ometimes lay at clubs uncalled-for for weeks* 

Vol. Iviil— 14,_ 

" Is that Lady Malcolm speaking ? Yes ? 

This is Philip Kearney/' 

M Yes ; I recognized your voice" 

" It is perfectly sweet of you to tell me so." 

She bit her lip and coloured as she sat up, all 

alone . 

" Thanks so much fur the flowers/* 

" Ah h they reached you before you went out ? 

You told me you were going out. Have I 

waked you too carlv ? " 
" No, no/' 
" The flowers were an apology for having said 

too much/' GriamalfrQJTL 
" Oh, but—- vpu--yp.u — didn't/" 
" Do ^ttrtffi"JmfeyrL&<i , 'nidl^yl , Jtoo much I " 
I mean 



" Are you there ? Thank you for telling me 
that. Will you be in any time to-day ? " 

44 I am going to be busy." 

" Yes. - But I will come any minute of any hour." 

Lady Malcolm's heart beat thickly. 

She hesitated. 

" Halloa ! " came his voice. " Are you there ? 
Mayn't I call for a few minutes ? " 

She answered, in a light, airy way : " Oh, 
yes, of course. People are coming to lunch. 
But about three o'clock I shall probably be 
alone." As soon as she had said it she bit her 
lip. She had not meant ■ 

Of course she had not meant 

After Kearney's triumphant " Thank you," 
there was silence. She hung up the receiver 
and lay down again. That morning she wrestled 
very abstractedly with her correspondence. 
People were silly ! They had written up from 
the country about dairy difficulties. She usually 
threw her heart and soul into her model dairy. 
But — why couldn't the fools manage ? 

Her two children came in to kiss her before 
walking with their governess in the Park. 

Tom came to her sitting-room. He, too, had 
been bothered. His bailiff had written, trouble- 

" Well you look this morning, old girl," he 
said, glancing at her in a rather surprised way 
before he went out again. 

At three she was alone, waiting, waiting, 
waiting for Kearney's ring. 

When it sounded she pretended she had not 
heard. * 

Totally unversed as she was, she did not know 
it, but she was already admitting this to herself : 
that she must be on guard. So she was standing 
at the French window opening to the flower- 
filled balcony, with her back to the room, when 
Kearney was shown in. She even stupidly 
pretended to be oblivious of her butler's quiet 
announcement, and remained looking from the 
window. A soft occasional rush of a car came 
up from Chester Place, otherwise there reigned 
the quiet that , sometimes seems to drop upon a 
lazy London drawing-room. Kearney had the 
whole situation in a brief look. Already she was 
pretending and fighting. He paused two seconds 
to see if she would look round, and come forward 
with the conventional word on her lips. She 
did not. Sure about the next quarter of an hour, 
anyway, he strode silently across the room, took 
her in his arms, turned her to face him, and 
kissed her. It was done. 

He knew she would now be frightened of her- 
self ; and she was. She began to resist him ; 
he tightened his arms. She began to whisper, 
" Oh-h, you m-m-must not " ; he did not allow 
her to speak. She was amazed and shaking. 
He held her and kissed her till he felt her resist- 
ance falter. When at last he allowed her, she 
whispered : " Let me go ! " 

" Look at me, Lilian ! " he ordered. She 
refused to obey. " You do not want me to let 
you go," he said. 

" I— I— I Will you go ? Please go ! '• 

" If you tell me to go, Lilian, I'll go. Do you 
mean it ? " 

She hesitated. And just as she was going to 
say, stubbornly^ and desperately, " Yes ! " he 
saw the " yes "coming and kissed her. " You 
don't want me to go," he said. 

" Sit down," she murmured. 

They sat down, side by side, on a Chesterfield 
couch. Kearney looked at her. She was not 
like the same woman. He kissed her hf.nds 
one after the other and all her finger- tips' one 
after the other. " Darling," he said, simply, 
dropping his hand on her knee, " hasn't anyone 
ever told you before that you are absolutely the 
sweetest thing that ever happened ? " 

No one had ever told Lilian this before. 
Kearney knew it as well as she did. . ^ 

She looked at him mutely. Again he kissed 

" I — I— shall have to go," she stammered. 

" Engagements ? " he asked. 

She nodded. 

" You can't keep a single one of them," said 
Kearney, masterfully, " till you've told me when 
I can see you again." 

"Mr. Kearney " 

" No, Lilian. You don't call me Mr. Kearney. 
You silly darling ! " v ^ 

"Philip — you'd better not see, /me again." 

" That is right out of the question. So when 
may it be ? " 

She was silent. 

He pressed : " What are you doing to-night ? " 

" Nothing, to-night." 

" Dining alone at home ? Husband at the 
House ? " 

" Yes." 

" Dine with me instead. Come to my flat. 
My God 1 don't be afraid ! Come, darling. 
You want to. Now, don't you want to ? " 

As yet it was impossible for Lilian to make 
that admission. 

" And I want you so, dearest," said Kearney. 

" Philip, don't you see — I can't. I daren't 

44 My dearest, it's a progressive world. You 
would be doing nothing more than many women 
do dozens of times in their lives if they care for 
a man." 

Those slim, exotic women with the rather 
wonderful clothes. . . . 

" But, Philip " 

" No, darling. There is no ' but ' ! You're 
your own this evening — no engagements." He 
took her in his arms. " Now promise." 

" I ought not." 

" My God I Darling girl, we can't leave it 
like this ! Don't you see we must at least talk 
things over, as we can't do here, with your 
servants about, your husband — oh, all the lot ! 
I wouldn't compromise you for the world." 

" Yes. I — we — perhaps — I think we must 
talk it out." 

Kearney meant to have her alone that evening 
on whatever pretext. A talk, yes — but it 
wouldn't be the excellent, moral talk full of good 
resolutions which she was pretending to herself 
it would be 1 She, who had lived upon the 
judgment seat — she knew nothing yet of the 
thousand ways of love ; the thousand delights 




and t he thousa ad pc r i Is , He si. i d : "Thank y 1 m , 
my darling. I'll come and call fur you, shall I. 
dear? Because you won't use your car, will you ? " 

A flicker crossed her face. He watched it 
come and go. The first acknowledged deceit — ■ 
that would go hard with her. She, so blandly 
impeccable, would hate to stoop to the little 
subterfuges. But he knew perfectly well that 
soon she would love them all, all I 

She murmured faintly : "If you'll call— — ■" 

" I shall, dear, at seven- thirty/' He drew her 
with him, up to her feet- " Till then, good-bye. 
Lilian, say good-bye, Say good-bye, dear/ 1 

She would not, however, return his kiss ; nor 
put her arms about his neck. " She shall, this 
evening." he thought. He read all she was 
thinking. w I know what you're thinking," he 
said, seriously* tl You're afraid I'll make love 
to you all the time, to-night. And — you're 
afraid you'll like it. But: dear, I promise—/ 
promise— I ' 11 be just as good as you want me 

to be,;; 

When he had gone* Lilian Malcolm did a 
thing for which she could find no excuse at aJL 
She cancelled, by telephone, her engagement to 
look in at a charity concert* ordered her car, 
and drove to a dressmaker whom she had never 
favoured before* 

" I want," she said, abruptly, " to pick up a 
dinner gown for immediate wear. Perhaps you 
have some model which would fit me." 

They knew !< er, of course, and her style oi 
dressing, which had varied only by slight con* 
formation to fashion, for years. After a look at 
her they brought out a matronly affair, smilingly 
sure it would please, She refused it uneasily. 
" I want something different to the things I 
usually wear." ' Your ladyship is adopting a 
new style ? " " Well, perhaps " 

All their crafty treasures were brought out 
then. They fitted her with an ivory coloured 
frock, sheath-like and yet so draped that her 
hard and sturdy lines were softened into some- 
thing like real curves. She carried this revela- 
tion home with her in the car. 

When Kearney took her cloak from her at 
seven forty-five, in the hall of his flat, and saw 
the ivory gown, he repeated to himself : " Oh, 
women ! the same all the world over ! " And lie 
murmured to her: "Do you know what you 

She thrilled all over ; and was glad. There 
was no use in deceiving herself. She was glad* 

As she looked around, the flat was not strange 
to her. It was his. 

Ail the while during dinner her sense of 
rectitude was trying to refuse to share the secret 
which her heart was telling, beat by beat. It 
was : that she was impatient for the end of 
dinner ; the end oi service ; impatient for the 
dclayed[^'q^|^|^^^^[^^^ be alone, 

Possibly Kearney knew how that would be. 



He might, anyway, have ordered a shorter 
dinner It took an hour ; a whole precious 
hour. He knew when she became abstracted 
while he talked that she began to fret. 

At last they were alone, and looked at one 

" Well, my. dear ? " said the man. 

She did not answer. 

" Kiss me, Lilian," said Kearney, leaning 
towards her over the table. She leaned towards 
him and their lips met. 

" Come and sit here, darling," he said. And 
they rose and . sat together near the fire. 
*' Lilian," he murmured, " I want to make love 
to you ; but if you will hate it and me, darling, 
I won't." 

She made none but a sort of faint murmurous 
resistance when five minutes later he drew her 
into his arms. 

Two hours after, when he had driven her 
home, she was again before her glass in her ivory 
colour gown. The talk had not run pn the lines 
oh which she had told herself and him she had 
intended it to run. She had yielded tc^autting 
her arms around his neck, kissing him good 
night. The last fragments of talk in the dark 
cab were flitting restlessly in her brain : 

" You're not a woman of many love affairs, 
are you, Lilian ? " 

" I — I have never before — and I am going to 
stop now — — " 

" You are not going to stop now. You have 
never had a great love affair, have you, Lilian ? " 

" My — my husband — Tom " 

"You have never had a great love affair?" 

She was quiet. It was so. 

" Don't you think life is a desert without just 
one, Lilian ? " 

She had now a secret in her heart ; she, who 
had always declared that no decent woman 
should ever have passages in her life which the 
whole world might not know. 

Before a week was out she had again been to 
the flat. This time it was later. She sent the 
car home after a theatre party, and Kearney 
spirited her away in a taxi. No one knew. She 
was above* suspicion. She stayed till after 
midnight. She still had a faint belief in her own 
strength, and was unaware that had Kearney 
taken her in his arms remorselessly and persuaded 
her to stay, she would have stayed. All the 
same, he did whisper to her :- — 

" I wish you would not go." 

And though her lips did not reply, her heart 
was beating : " I want to stay. I — want — to — 

About this time she found sunset and dawn 
almost intolerably beautiful, she heard music 
in ordinary sounds, and slowly, like a child at 
its primer, she read history in people's faces. 

A dark, hot night ; she never forgot the velvet 
breath of it — stars in the sky ; she never forgot 
their golden dust sprinkled particle by particle 
upon the dull blue roof of the world — the rose- 
gardens down to the river ; she never forgot 
nor forgave a rose the luscious sweetness of its 
scent — the trees of Richmond black against the 

lighter curtain. of night; she never forgot the 
mysterious upward reaching of the>m — the 
river ; she never forgot its inscrutable secret 
flowing, and -she herself was so dammed -up ! — 
behind them the lighted hotel they had just 
left; she never forgot that tasteless, and 
ambrosial dinner. 

The gardens went down to the river-edge, and 
she had walked down their length with Kearney. 
They sat down and could see the dark river 
twinkle by. She longed for his arms. 

He spoke. " Lilian, this can't go on, It 

" W — w — what ? " she whispered. " \V — w — 
why ? " 

But she knew. 

" I am only a man," said Kearney. 

But .what a man ! With every fibre of her she 
loved him. 

In a moment or two she felt what she longed 
for; his arms. 

" Lilian," he whispered, "will you ? " 

" Anything," she whispered back. 

" Couldn't you get away for a few days ? For 
three days ? For two ? " 

" In the season 1 " 

" Go over to Paris." 

" I never do." , - _ 

" But you are learning to do many new things." 

She set her wits to work. " I could do this," 
she was presently murmuring, " and that. I 
could say . . . ." 

" We should be together for three whole days," 
whispered Kearney. 

" Oh, Philip," she murmured, " J want to be 
always with you. Always! Always!'* - 

" Lilian, you wouldn't give up your home : 
your friends ? The whole approval of society ? " 

" I would give up anything ! " 

He kissed her. She pressed closer to him. 
"Make plans, darling," he said. They made 
them there in the rose gardens. 

It was not to be Paris, but a little quiet village 
by the sea. 

She had made a splendid little map of her 
reasons for going, each reason leading, by a 
perfectly good road to the next, but they were 
not asked for. No one concerned questioned 
her. Lilian Malcolm was taken on trust. 

She was to leave her maid at home. 

She was to meet Kearney at Dover. 

Never in her life had she been so happy. 

She had packed her bag herself, because there 
was a new frock in it, not a Paris frock, a lovely 
little frock like chintz, to wear by the sea. And 
she had packed her most beautiful intimate 
things with a smile, a delicious tremor. At 
Dover, she sat in the hotel waiting. He was to 
be there for lunch, motoring down. * - 

At one o'clock she was watching the road. 

At one-fifteen she was watching the road. 

At one -thirty she was watching the white road. 

She knew his car well by now ; it had a body 
of shining silver-grey which flashed in the sun- 
light. Many cars approached, but by two 
o'cloc'k there was no silver ficush flying down the 
white road. 




The boat left at three. Two-thirty. She was praying; and hcf 

God I . * . . God ! . , . .An accident ? heart felt as if P at any moment, it must stop, 

" Will you lunch, madam ? " said a waiter, " Will you iimoh. now, madam r " said the 

approaching, waiter, Ui#ki£fe]bUiJt - F MICHIGAN 

" I am waiting for a gentleman/* She would lunch. 



She walked in steadily. Her hands were cold 
and the palms damp. 

An accident ? 

The boat left at three. 

Her whole heart and soul and brain were one 
intense concentration. Her body burned. 

Three o'clock. Three-five. Three-ten. All — 
all over ! 

The waiter approached. " There is a tele- 
phone message for a lady named Malcolm." He 
looked at her questioningly. She nodded. He 
laid a little slip of paper beside her on the table. 

" The gentleman says he is unable to join you 
to-day," the clerk had written down. 

No accident, then — but what had happened ? 

What could have happened at this cruel, 
cruel eleventh hour ? 


The waiter looked at her questioningly. 

" Yes," she said, replying calmly, " bring my 
bill and a Bradshaw." 

She was travelling back to Town. 

He could not say much, of course, to a clerk 
over the telephone. ' 

There would be a letter, if not himself, awaiting 
her return. 

There was no letter. 

She made a simple explanation to the butler 
of having through mere stupidity lost to-day's 
boat ; then moistened her lips and asked : " By 
the way, Mr. Kearney hasn't rung up to-day ? " 

" No, my lady." 

" Ring up — ring up — and just ask if he's in." 

After a few minutes : " He is not in, my lady." 

She shut the drawing-room door and was 
alone with herself. What a terrible companion I 
Oh, what a haggard, fierce, haunted, tormented 
woman ! 

What had happened ? 
, Should she wire ? He was not in. His man 
would open it. Servants .... he had always 
told her to be very, very, very careful. 

She ordered her car. 

She did not care about being careful. She 
was consumed. Now, what mattered except 
that she should know quickly ? 

She was at the familiar flat, speaking to the 

Mr. Kearney had said he should not be in till 
late. It was possible he was dining at one of his 
clubs, not returning home to dress. The servant 
did not really know. 

She drove home. She must wait. 

She must wait in torment. 

But perhaps now she would find him at home. 

He was not there. 

She wanted help. She wanted a wisdom 
greater than her own limited one to say : "It 
means this," or " It means that." 

Hadn't she some such friend ? Just someone 
to pass away a haunted hour with, till relief 
might come ? 

Hadn't she some such friend ? No. The 

women she considered her intimate friends were 
women like herself ; like she had been ; correct, 
impeccable ; all self-constituted jurywomen. 

She was by her desk, her finger-tips pattering 
ceaselessly over it. She looked down dumbly 
at an array of formal letters. Then one — 

It caught her eye. It had been answered ; 
should have been consigned to destruction. But 
she'd been abstracted ; her correspondence was 
in confusion. There it still was — the sad, be- 
seeching thing. It lay there, speaking to her. 

She did not even think : " Beatrice ? . . . . 
Ah, there but for the grace of God go I ! " i Xd. 
She thought : - " Beatrice 1 Ah, God ! Ah, God ! 
If I were she .... If I were she I " t „„ 

Beatrice had drunk from the > eup. Thrice 
fortunate woman ! Blessed ! -Blessed ! BlessecV! 

She tore out the letter, read*" the telephone 
number at its head, and took the receiver from 
the instrument on her desk. 

Kearney was in his club when Tom Malcolm 
"came in. They saw each other, and Malcolm 
came over to him. " Haven't seen you since 
I don't know when," he said, grasping the other's 
hand, "but my wife mentioned you. You've 
called ? Very nice of you. Talking of my wife, 
I was amazed • this evening. Amazed ! ?Just 
dropped in home, and what should you think ? 
Well, - you remember that Cathcart business ? 
Perry was a friend of yours. w Poor fella, fetill, 
it wasn't the thing to do. Well, my wife has 
steadily refused to countenance that little 
woman since she came back ; but this evening 
I drop in, and there, believe me or not, were my 
wife and little Mrs. Cathcart talking as thick as 
thieves. Now " 

" A moment, Malcolm," said Kearney, motion- 
ing a servant. " Ask the telephone clerk to 
ring up Captain Lakin at the Athletic Club, and 
tell him I'll be delighted to join in. Lakin," he 
said, turning to Tom, "is off to Alaska with a 
party of good fellows day after to-morrow, and 
I was entirely undecided till just now as to 
whether I'd go or not. But go on." 

" No," said Tom, " you go on. This is very 
interest in' about Alaska " 

" I, too, met Mrs. Cathcart a few days ago," 
Kearney interposed. 

" Ah, poor little devil," said Tom, again 
diverted. " Well, there she was at dinner with 
Lilian. Dare say the little woman was confessin' 
to her. I'm not sure that I altogether approve ; 
my wife must be a very broad-minded woman, 
broader than I thought ; but everything she 
does is right. Still, puzzlin', even to me. It's 
like 'em, though. You don't know women, 

" No," said Kearney. " Well, give my sa- 
laams to your mem-sahib and say I'll do myself 
the honour of writing her a good-bye as soon as 
we've left England well behind." 

j by Google 

Original from 



Revelations of the Secret History of Their Construction. 

Extracts from the Note- Book of a Pioneer. 



KtB.Ei* C • M • G * 

The writer of this article, who had more 
to do than any man with the success of 
the Tanks, here cells how they came into 
being, and how they had to fight the 
War O'fice before they fought the enemy. 

Augu&i. 1 9 14 to February. 19 15. 

experiences in the Great War 
may be of interest to a peaceful 
world in years to come. 

In November, 1914* I wrote to 
Mr, Churchill, First Lord of the 
Admiralty, offering to provide 
and equip an armoured car with 
crew complete. I saw Captain 
Sueter, who was in charge of the Armoured 
Car Division of the R.N.A^.* at the Admiralty, 
and was given a commission as lieutenant, 
R-N.V.R. Commander Booth by was our CO., 
and Major Hetherington Transport Officer to 
the division. Major Hetherington asked me to 
join his staff and to work under his Chief 
Assistant, lieutenant Fairer-Smith. I agreed to 
do so. 

Major Hetherington, our transport officer, 
had distinguished himself in the early days of 
airships. He was young, and always fid I of 
new ideas- He had a great knowledge of motor- 
cars, although not an engineer and there was 


no new invention which he would not eagerly 
take up and push forward. After discussion 
among certain officers and civilians about the 
uselessness of armoured cars, except on roads* 
and the great strides that had been made in light 
armour-plate as protection against the German 
41 S M bullet. Major Hetherington got the Duke 
of Westminster sufficiently interested in the idea 
of a lands hip to invite Mr, Winston Churchill 
to dinner. 


AlreaBHI'vtfl^^ of three at 

Murray's Club, Hetherington, James Kadley, 



and myself, a proposal had been put forward 
to build a iandship with three wheels, each as 
big as the Great Wheel at Earl's Court, In 
those days we thought only of crossing the 
Rhine, and this seemed a solution* 

I also remember Hetherington proposing to 
fire shells at Cologne by having a shell which, 
when it reached the top of its trajectory, would 
release a second shell inside it, with planes 
attached, and this second shell would plane 
down, making one hundred miles in alL It 
is strange that the Germans later tried and suc- 
ceeded in firing about eighty miles , but not in 
this way* 

Mr* Churchill came to the dinner and was 

delighted with the idea of a F . , 

cross-country car. He then set 
up a committee to study the 
question, and Mr. Eustace Ten- 
nyson d'Eyncourt, CB., the 
Director of Naval Construction, 
was appointed chairman on the 
twenty - fourth of February, 
1915, It was to be known as 
the Lands hip Committee* When 
I took over the duties of secre- 
tary of the Landship Committee 
in April , 19 15, Mr. d'Eyncourt 
was directing affairs, assisted 
by Major Hetherington, who 
carried out his iris t ructions, with 
Colonel Crompton as engineer. 
On June 16th Mr, d'Eyncourt 
asked me to reorganize the 
committee on business lines. 
This was done and approved by 
Mr* d'Eyncourt. 

At this period no Government department 
would provide any office acco in rnodat km for 
us, so on June 2 1st, 1915, I took an office at 
my own expense at S3, Pall Mall* and installed 
in it my entire organization, which consisted 
of myself and Mr* Percy Anderson, at that time 
a petty officer in the Armoured Car Division. 
A controversy raged on this subject for six 
months between the Admiralty, the Minis try 
of Munitions, and the Office of Works, The 
Admiralty referred to it as a troublesome case, 
and informed the Office of Works that a 
temporary lieutenant, Albert G. Stem p R,N.V.R., 
had straightway proceeded to take an office 
for himself at 8$< Pall Mall, and apparently 
did not understand the subtleties of the proce- 
dure in the Civil Service, 

On July <2nd t Squadron 20 of the Royal Naval 
Armoured Car Division, later to become famous 
as the " wet nurse "of Tanks, was placed, for 
this work, under the direction of Mr. d'Eyncourt. 


A number of experiments were made, and in 
August Mr, Tritton, of Messrs* Foster and Co. 
of Lincoln, and Lieutenant Wilson had started 
to draw out a machine on the same lines but of 
stronger material and better design. On August 
26th Mr, Tritton, Lieutenant Wilson* and I 
viewed the full-sized wooden model of this 
machine. It was known as the " Tritton J> 

Machine, and later as " Little Willie," On the 
same day, at a meeting at the White Hart 
Hotel, Lincoln, we discussed fresh requirements 
which we had just received from the War Office. 
They asked that the machine should be able 
to cross a trench fii'e feet wide with a parapet 
four feet six inches high* Lieutenant Wilson 
and Mr. Tritton thereupon started work on a 
type designed to do this. It would, they told 
me, require a sixty-foot wheel. 

The contour of this sized wheel became irore 
or less the shape of the underside of the new 
machine, which was called first the Ir Wilson " 
Marhine. then "Big Willie/ 'and finally" Mother," 

This machine, to all intents and purposes, 


was, and remains, the Heavy Tank of to-day — 
the Mark V. 

September, 1915, to February, 1916, 

I have already spoken of the impossibility of 
finding any Government Department which 
would give us accommodation, That was only 
one of our many difficulties. We encountered 
opposition from all quarters. Manufacturers did 
not like our type of work. It was all experi- 
mental and meant continual cancel ling of orders* 
Then, in July, the Ministry of Munitions took 
over all inventions in connection with land 
warfare* and the Admiralty, quite rightly, was 
unwilling to provide the men for these experi- 
ments* This meant the loss of Squadron 30, 
and without Squadron 20 all our experiments and 
transport would have stopped. 

In August the whole of the Armoured Car 
Division wa<\ disbanded ! 

This disband ment was stopped by the personal 
intervention of Mr d'Eyncourt. It was one of 
the many occasions on which he saved the 
lands hips (and future Tanks) from extinction. 
I also made a personal request to the Minister 
of Munitions , and was told by him that the 
Admiralty informed him that the order was to 
be disrega(wS9 ,na ' from 

M^l^^^^yaO^iMrtC^teM^. for secrecy's 
sake, to change the title of the Landships Com- 




mittee. Mr. d'Eyn court agreed that it was very 
desirable to retain secrecy by all means* and 
proposed to refer to the vessel as a " Water 
Carrier/' In Government offices, committees 
and departments are always known by their 
initials. For this reason l w as secret ary, con- 
sidered the proposed title totally unsuitable. 
In our search for a synonymous term, we changed 
the words "Water Carrier'* to "Tank/' and 
became the *' Tank Supply/* or " T.S. " Com- 
mittee, This is how these weapons came to be 
called " Tanks/' and the name has now been 
adopted by all countries in the world. 

The first Tank, " Mother," was finished on 
January 2 6th, 1916, and sent by train to Hatfield 
Station, where it was unloaded in the middle of 
the night and driven up to the special ground 
in Hatfield Park, A detachment of Squadron so T 
under the command of Major Hetherington, had 
previously been sent to Hatfield* 

Colonel Sir Maurice Han key arranged for 
Mr. McKenna, Chancellor of the Exchequer, to 
travel down to the Hatfield trials in my car. I 
explained to himourideasof mechanical warfare 
and its value in the saving of life and shells. 
After the trials, Mr, McKenna said that it was 
the best investment he had yet seen, and that if 
the military approved, all the necessary money 
would be available* 

Mr. Balfour, amongst others, took a ride in 
the Tank, but was removed by his fellow- 
Ministers before the machine tried the widest of 
the trenches. This was a trench more than nine 
feet wide which Lord Kitchener wished to see it 
cross, but which it had never attempted before. 
As Mr. Balfour was being removed feet first 
through the s pons on door, he was heard to 

remark that he was sure there must be some more 
artistic method of leaving a Tank ! 

Sir William Robertson was well satisfied with 
the machine. He left the ground earJy. owing to 
pressing business, but before he went he told me 
that urders should be immediately given for the 
construction uf several. 

On February 8th, His Majesty the King 
vbited Hatfield, when a special demonstration 
was arranged. He took a ride in the Tank, and 
said afterwards that he thought such a weapon 
would be a great as set to the Army possessing a 
large number, 


Other people were also very anxious to obtain 
tanks— but not the k nd we were building. 
The secret of our work was very well kept in 
the Ministry of Munitions* not even the Inquiry 
Office being in possession of the true facts. 
This had its disadvantages, however, and caused 
us unnecessary work, for very frequently we 
had inquiries from enthusiastic manufacturers 
of gas, oil, and water tanks who were anxious 
to secure orders in their own particular lines. 

On one occasion a Staff officer at the War 
Office rang us up and asked if we were the 
" Tank " Department. On being told that we 
were, he asked when delivery of Ids oil tanks 
might be expected. He was politely informed 
that we could not tell him, as we were not build- 
ing oil tanks. He then asked what sort of tanks 
we were interested in — gas or water — and on 
receiving the reply that we were interested in 
neither, he got very much annoyed, and banged 
his tele phone- receiver down- 

Colgnel Swinton, who was acting at this time 
as Assistant Secretary to the Committee of 




i *** wkitioek d. mm 

Jmp* Defence, was entrusted with trie task 
of raising and training a corps to pian the Tanks, 
and a cdittp^\^'kak in Norfolk, 

It was kept a great secret, and the whole ground, 



several miles in extent, was surrounded by 
armed guards* Several displays were given 
there during the summer, and live six-pounder 
shells were used. The King* Mr* Lloyd George, 
and Sir William Robertson were among those 
who saw our displays ; and in June Gjloncl 
Estienne, who later on was to command the 
French Tanks, visited the camp. 


About this time Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was 
writing to the Press and pointing out that 
unnecessary casualties were 
caused by making frontal at- 
tacks on German machine-guns 
■with unprotected infantry. He 
suggested that light armour 
should be worn, and that the 
authorities were wasting lives 
by not using it, 

Mr, Montagu asked me to see 
him and to show him that we 
were doing something still bet- 
ter to protect the infantry by 
mechanical means from mech- 
anical guns. lie was very much 
interested in our development*. 

From that time I kept in 
close touch with him. knowing 
his great knowledge of the his- 
tory of war. I told him that 
our idea was that once we had 
Tanks in large numbers we 
could brinft back the element of 
surprise which was now entirely 
lacking in the attack, Although 
he believed in mechanical war- 
fare, he doubted this. He 
doubted it untU the battle of 
Carnbrai, in November, 19 T 7, when he wrote 
to me : — 

" Windlesham, Crowborough, Sussex, 
44 November 22nd. 
" My Dear Stern, — I think your tactical 
ideas have been brilliantly vindicated by this 
battle, and that you should have warm con- 
gratulations from all who know the facts, 
11 Yours very truly, 

" A. Co»Atf Doyle/' 

It was decided that in September Tanks 
should go to France. The Tanks at The t ford 
were entrained at night and taken by rail to 
Avonmouth, There they were shipped to Havre, 
taken to a village near Abbeville, and from there 
sent up to a point fifteen miles behind the line. 
Moving Tanks was in those days a very difficult 
business. The sponsons, each weighing tons, 
had to be unbolted and put cm separate trucks, 
and in that journey from The t ford to the Front 
this process was gone through five times. The 
first party of the men of the Heavy Machine 
Gun Corps crossed to France on August 13th. 
Other parties followed, and on September 
15th, seven months after the first order was 
given by Mr. Lloyd George, the Tanks went into 


September, 1916, to October, 19 16* 
The Tanks were already in France and waitiii^ 
to go into battle, but the secret had been well 
kept — how well was shown by a tiling that hap- 
pened on the very morning in September whui 
1 was leaving for the Somme, for the first Tank 

A Civil servant, an assistant secretary, came 
to see me on this eventful morning just as ! 
was starting. He told me that as my depart- 
ment was of no real import ance* since he had 
no knowledge what it was, ho 
had arranged that during the 
next Sunday all my papers and 
drawings were to be moved out 
into a small flat in a back street 
opposite the Hotel Met rope >Le. 

This was no time to argue ; 
my train left in a few minutes ; 
once more the famous Squadron 
20 to the rescue. I told him that 
tl.e department could not move, 
as it was concerned in matters 
of the greatest national im- 
portance, and would require 
rx fore long a very large buildinp 
of its own. This had no effect on 
him, so I gave instructions to one 
of my officers in his presence to 
put an armed guard on my office 
w*hile I was away* and to rai.t 
any attack. Should the assistant 
secretary make an attempt he w s 
to be arrested, taken to Squad- 
ron 20 'a headquarters at Wemb- 
ley, tied to a stake for twenty* 
four hours, and the reason care- 
fully explained to al[ and sundry, 
especially newspaper reporters. 

Fortunately for him no attempt was made, 
but on my return we were offered, amongst 
other buildings, the Colonial Institute and the 
Union Club, Finally we took Nos. 14, 17, and 
io p Cockspur Street, and even these Work* 
of buildings proved too small. 

I arrived late at night on September 10th 
at Beauquestie (advanced headquarters), ami 
found that an old friend of mine. Major A. H 
Wood, was town major. Here I met Colonel 
Elles, who originally came to Hatfield for the 
B.E.F., and from him I learnt of the great 
victory of the Tanks the day before. 

On Sunday, the 17th, Sir Douglas Hai^ 
appeared in front of General Butler's office? 
and congratulated Colonel Swiuton and tne. 
He said, M We have had the greatest victory 
since the Battle of the Marne* We have taken 
more prisoners and more territory, with com- 
paratively few casualties. This is due to the 
Tanks. Wherever the Tanks advanced we took 
our objectives, and where they did not advance, 
we failed to take our objectives," He added: 
" Colonel Swinton, you shall be Head of the 
Tank Corps : Major Stern, you shall be Head of 
the Construction of T^nks- Go back and make 
as ,ittftii:£ f jHAr£ Xante- as -¥UU can. We thank 

ilflMffi JrtStfllGKff 






you." Immediately after my return we were 
ordered to build a thousand Tanks* 

The mere tactical record of what the Tanks 
did at Flers and Guendccourt gives no idea of 
the moral effect of the first appearance of this 
new and strange weapon. It astonished and 
terrified the enemy* It astonished, delighted, 
and am vised its friends* War correspondents 
vied with each other to find the vivid , unex- 
pected word that would do justice to its half- 
terrible, half -comic strangeness (and yet give 
away no secrets), and the humorists of the 
battalions sharpened their wits on it. They 
communicated their gaiety, through their letters, 
to the people at home. The j oiliest, most fan* 
tastic of them all was a letter from a soldier 
to hLs sweetheart, which appeared in the news- 
papers at the time. It could not be left out of 
an article on Tanks ' — 

" They can do up prisoners in bundles 
like straw-binders, and, in addition, have an 
adaption of a printing macliinc^ which enables 
them to catch the Huns, fold, count, and 
deliver them in quires, every thirteenth man 
being thrown out a little further than the 
others. The Tanks can truss refractory 
prisoners like fowls prepared for cooking, 
while their equipment renders it possible 
for them to charge into a crowd of Huns 
and, by shooting out spokes like porcupine 
qui lis, carry off an opponent on each, Though 
* stuck-up * the prisoners are, needless to 
say, by no means proud of their position. 

*' They can chew up barbed wire and turn 
it into munitions. As they run they slash 
their tails and clear away trees, houses, 
howitzers, and anything else in the vicinity* 
They turn over on their backs and catch live 
shells in their caterpillar feet, and they can 
easily be adapted as submarines ; in fact, 
most of them crossed the Channel in this guise. 

They loop the loop, travel forwards, sideways, 

and backwards, not only with equal speed but 

at the same time* They spin round like a 

top N only far more quickly, dig themselves in, 

bury themselves, sooop out a tunnel, and come 

out again ten miles away in half an hour." 

It was another soldier's letter home which, for 

a short time, made us fear that in spite of all 

our precautions German agents had copied 

some of our plans. One day, the Secret Service 

told me that they thought they were about to 

catch a spy. Drawings of a Tank had been 

found in an envelope marked with a name, 

but with no address, in a pillar-box in Glasgow. 

We thought this discovery would certainly 

lead to a blank wall and a firing party, but the 

facts were much more odd than we could ever 

have imagined. 

A servant-girl came to the post-office and 
said that she had been asked by her mistress 
to take two letters, one to deliver at another 
house in the street and the other to post- By 
mistake, she had dropped the one for post into 
the letter- box of the house, and the one for the 
house in the pillar-box. This was the un- 
ad dressed letter with the drawings of the Tank. 
Her mistress was then interviewed and said that 
the drawings had been sent back to her from 
France by the Government- They were, ap- 
parently, sketches made by her son before he 
was killed in battle. She had no use for the 
sketches, and so had put them in an envelope 
and sent them to a friend of her son, who had 
worked with him in the same Engineering 

A little later on I took Mr. Wells to Birming- 
ham to show him how his idea had at last been 
realized. He wrote an article on what he saw, 
prophesying,, as 014 y he could, what would come 
of thestlN^^!"^^^^ that the 

factories should not be robbed of the men who 



could build them. At the time the article was 
forbidden by the Censor, I will quote from it 
his description of the Tanks, It was one of the 
earliest authentic descriptions written at a time 
when so much was appearing in print that was 
entertaining but untrue s— 


* 4 October, 191 6. 
"* The young of even the most humble 
beasts have something piquant and engaging 
about them, and so I suppose it is in the way 
of things that the 1 nd ironclad, which opens 
a new and more dreadful and destructive 
phase in the human folly of warfare, should 
appear first as if it were a joke. Never has 
any such thing so completely masked its 
wickedness under an appearance of g aial 
silliness. The Tank is a creature to which one 
naturally flings a pet name ; the five or six i 
was shown wandering, rooting, and climbing 
over obstacles round a large field near X, 
were as amusing and disarming as a litter of 
lively young pigs. 

In a little while there will probably be 
pictures of these things available for the 
public ; in the meanwhile, I may perhaps 
give them a word of description. They are 
like large slugs ; with an underside a little 
like the flattened rockers of a rocking horse ; 
blugs between twenty and forty feet long, they 
are like fiat -sided slugs, slugs with spirit who 
raise an inquiring snout, like the snout of a 
dogfish, into the air. They crawl upon their 
bellies in a way that would be tedious to 
describe to the inquiring specialist. They 
go over the ground with the sliding speed of 
active snails. Behind them trail two wheels 
supporting a flimsy tail, wheels that strike 
as if a monster began 

kangaroo and ended doll's perambulator, 
{These wheels annoy me.) They are not 
steely monsters ; they are painted the drab 
and unassuming colours that are fashionable 
in modem warfare, so that the armour seems 
rather like the integument of a rhinoceros. 
At the sides of the head project armoured 
cheeks, and from above these stick out guns 
that look very like stalked eyes. That is the 
general appearance of the contemporary 

4H It slides on the ground ; the silly little 
wheels that so detract from the genial besti- 
ality of its appearance dangle and bump 
behind it. It swings round about its axis. 
It comes to an obstacle, a low wall, let us say, 
or a heap of bricks, and sets to work to climb 
with its snout. It rears over the obstacle, it 
raises its straining belly, it overhangs more 
and more, and at last topples forward ; it 
sways upon the heap and then goes plunging 
downwards, sticking out the weak counter- 
poise of its wheeled tail. If it comes to a 
house or a tree or a wall or such-like obstruc- 
tion it r?.ms against it so as to bring all its 
weight to bear upon it— it weighs some tons— 
and then climbs over the debris, I saw it, 
and incredulous soldiers of experience hatched 
it at the same time, cross trenches and wallow 
amazingly through muddy exaggerations of 
shell holes. Then I repeated the tour inside. 

" Again the Tank is like the slug. The 
slug, as every biological student knows, is 
unexpectedly complicated inside* The Tank 
is as crowded with inward parts as a battle- 
ship. It is filled with engines, guns and 
ammunition, and, in the interstices, men. 

" ' You will smash your hat/ said Colonel 

" ' No, keep it on. or else you will smash 
your head.' 

"Only Mr C. R. W. 
Ne vinson could do 
justice to the interior 
of a Tank. You see a 
hand gripping some- 
thing ; you see the 
eyes and forehead of 
an engineer's face ; yon 
perceive that an overall 
blueishness beyond the 
engine is the back of 
another mam ' Don't 
hold that/ says some- 
one. ' It is too hot* 
Hold on to that/ Tl e 
engines roar, so loudly 
that I doubt whether 
one could hear guns 
without ; the floor be- 
gins to slope and slopes 
until one seems 'to be 
at forty -five degrees or 
thereabouts ; then the 
whole concern swings 


ILLUSTRATION, THIS IS THK KIND OF OBSTACLE TH.B ll -pAN«Sy flMUl f Wfi^iPte ^ ° tller *•'' 


one as incongruous 







bank. You heel sideways. Through the door 
which has been left open you see the little group 
of engineers, staff officers, and naval men reced- 
ing and f al ling a wa y belli nd you , Yo u s trai gh- 
ten up arid go up hilL You halt and begin to 
rotate, Through the open door, the green field 
with its red walls, rows of worksheds and forests 
of chimneys in the background, begins a steady 
processional movement. Hie group of en- 
gineers and officers and naval men appears at 
the other aide of the door and further off. 
Then comes a sprint down hill. You descend 
end stretch your legs. 

" About tlie field other Tanks are doing 
their stunts. One is struggling in an apo- 
plectic way in the mud pit with a check half 
buried. It noses its way out and on with an 
air of animal relief. 

" They are like jokes by Heath Robinson. 
One forgets that these things have already saved 
the lives of many hundreds of our soldiers and 
smashed and defeated thousands of Germans. 

" Said one soldier to me : ' In the old 
attacks you used to see the British dead lying 
outside the machine gun emplacements like 
birds outside a butt with a good shot inside. 
Now, these things walk through. 1 ,J 


On October ioth I 
received an official in- | 
struct ion from the 
Army Council cancell- 
ing the order for a 
thousand Tanks* 

Ail the manufactur- 
ers who had had any 
experience of the 
Methods of tae Tank 
Department up till 
then had worked with 
the greatest enthusi- 
asm. This sudden 
cancellation came as 
£ thunder bolt* I im- 
^WiatcJy went to see 
Mr. Lloyd George, the 
Secretary of State for 

War, He said that he 
had heard nothing of 
the last ruction. I told 
him that I had, with 
enormous difficulty* 
started swinging this 
huge weight, and that 
I could not possibly 
stop it now, I told him 
that he could cancel 
my appointment, but 
he could not possibly 
get me to cancel the 
orders I had placed* 
Sir William Robert^ 
son, the Chief of the 
Imperial General Staff, 
then appeared, and Mr. 
Lloyd George said that 
he could not under* 
stand how this order could be cancelled without 
his knowledge, since he was President of the 
Army Council. He asked me to tell Sir William 
Robertson what I had told him. This I did. 
Excusing myself owing to pressure of work, I 
then left the room* 

The order for the production of a thousand 
Tanks was reinstated next day, 

October, 1916, to Aprils 1917, 

General Anley, who had commanded a brigade 
in the Mons retreat, now took command of the 
Tanks in England. He had a keen sense of 
humour. One day a bombastic Lieut, -Colonel 
of Tanks came into my office when the General 
was there, " When shall I get my Tanks ? M 
said the bombastic officer. " The Commander- 
in-Chief is awfully annoyed that I have not got 
any yet/* 

" This." said the General, turning to me, 
" reminds me of the fly on the elephant's trunk 
apologizing for its weight." 

In the early days we found it very hard to get 
any staff at all, for the Army refused to allow us 
men of military age. It was very necessary, 
however, that we should secure the services of 



, _^ 


■ * 


* .. m*j - *: J 

PAINTED ON EAdjkNfo'lEfe:^?'!'''^ W&fcl lG A N 
thotQi Fetter <£ O* 



a good Trans port Officer to superintend the 
transport of Tanks from the manufacturers to 
Tank Headquarters in France* a man with 
business experience and a man of the world. I 
asked Mr. George Gross mith if he would under- 
take this work, He was over military age, hut 
jumped at the idea of being able to help in any 
way, and accepted at once. He was given a 
commission in the R.NW.R. under the Admir- 
alty, and did valuable work from the time of his 
joining up in November, 1916, till the date of 
the ar mist ice * Since he was an actor; many 
attacks were made on him by jealous people. 
It was on the occasion of one of these attacks 
that I was called to the Admiralty to explain 
what he was doing for my department, 1 told 
them, and his work was heartily approved. The 
official whom I saw sent for the file of papers 
relating to Ms commission. He told a clerk 
who had been at the Admiralty some forty years 
to look it up* - * Under what heading ? " 
the clerk. " Ministry of Muni- 
tions," was the reply. 4i Did 
you say Ministry of Musicians ? " 
said tins clerk of forty years' ex- 
perience , looking very puzzled. 


At the beginning of March, Mr. 

Eu Tong Sen, a member, of the 

Federal Council of the Malay 

States, offered j£6.opc* for the 

purchase of a Tank* which the 

Army Council gratefully accepted 

on behalf of His Majesty's 

Government, The Tank selected 

was one built by Messrs, Foster 

and Co., at Lincoln, and had a 

plate put on it with the following 

inscription * — - 

" Presented to H + M. Govern- 
ment by Mr, Eu Tong Sen, 
member of the Federal Council 
of the Malay States, on March 
ioth, 1917/ 1 *" 
All Chinese ships and boats, 

large or small, have a large " eye " 

painted at each side of the bow. The Chinese 

explanation of the custom is I " No have eyra* 

how can see ? *' It seemed only right that this 

-i landship " also should see* and accordingly an 

eye was painted on each side of its bow. 

May, 1 91 7 , to September, 1917. 

In May, 1917, Sir Douglas Haig wrote a letter 
to Lord Derby, the Secretary of State for War, 
in which he said that the importance of Tanks 
was firmly established and that there should be 
a special department at the War Office to look 
after them. 

A Committee was therefore set up, with 
General Capper as Chairman. On July 57th, 
Sir Eustace d'Eyn court and I ceased to attend 
the meetings of this Committee. We found 
that the three military members, who a month 
before had never even seen a Tank, laid down 
ail rulings even with regard to design and 


production. They were in the majority and wte 
could do nothing. 

Instead of orders being given for thousands 
of Tanks, as I had hoped, Mr* Churchill told rtie 
that the requirements for the Army for 191S 
were to be one thousand three hundred and 
fifty fighting Tanks. This I determined to 
fight with ever}' means in my power, and I told 
Mr. Churchill so. I then had an interview with 
Sir William Robertson, Chief of the Imperial 
General Staff, and told hirn that the proposed 
preparations for 191 8 were wholly and entirely 
inadequate. Sir William Robertson replied that 
this seemed pretty straight. I replied that it 
was meant to be straight. 

Sir William Robertson was extremely polite 
and shook hands with me when I left. 

Oi f ober t 191 7, to November, igi7 + 
On the nth of October I asked for an inter- 
view with Mr, Churchill in order 
to put my views before him, for 
he appeared to be taking the 
advice of the War Office and not 
of the pioneers of Mechanical War- 
fare. I told him that I had served 
three Ministers of Munitions ; 
that I had had the confidence and 
support of all three — Mr. Lloyd 
George, Mr. Montagu, and D<\ 
Addison ; that as a result I had 
done efficient work, and that with- 
out his confidence I could not 
make a success of Mechanical 
Warfare, He replied that I had 
his confidence, but that the War 
Office wanted a change made. 
The War Office, he said, accused 
me of lumbering them up with 
useless Tanks at the Front and of 
wasting millions of the public 
money. Here I asked him to go 
slowLy, as I wished to take down 
this astounding statement. In 
the opinion of the War Office, 
he said, there had been a total 
failure in design, no progress had been made, all 
the money spent on Tanks had been wasted, 
and the belief in Mechanical Warfare was now 
at such a low ebb that they proposed to give it 
up entirely* Mr, Churchill paid me flattering 
compliments and said that the country would 
reward me suitably for my great services. 

I told him that I had fought against the 
forces of reaction from the day when the order 
for a thousand tanks was cancelled by the 
Army Council without the knowledge of Mr. 
Lloyd George t although he was Secretary of 
State for War. and as a result of my protest 
was reinstated the ne?ct day ; that time after 
time we had saved the War Office from wasting 
millions of money and going entirely wrong, and 
that our advice had finally been taken in each 
case in correction of the War Office's original 
action. I challenged Mr, Churchill to produce 
a single ca^e ivluire I had done anything to 


23 1 

gave him two examples of the way in which I 
had worked. The transmission in the first 
Tanks was not very satisfactory. Immediately 
after the first Tank battle on the Somme I had 
put in hand every possible design oi transmission* 
that we might discover the best* Again, on 
March 7th, 191 7, I proposed to Dr, Addison to 
take over Sir William Tritton and Messrs. 
Foster's factory solely for experimental wort 
but Dr* Addison' was unable to agree to this, as 
the future of Tanks was at that time too 

On October 15th I was told by Sir Arthur 
Duckham that three Generals at the War Office 
had asked lor my removal. 

The whole trouble with the War Office was 
that I had pressed for a large programme of 
Tanks, at least four thousand for the fighting 
of 1918, but the Committee against which we 
had continually protested, with its War Office 
majority of Generals who knew nothing of Tanks, 
had overruled me. Now, at a time when the 
decisions of experts were absolutely necessary 
in preparation for 1918* and when it was clear 
to us that enormous quantities of Tanks were 
needed, the War Office programme was for 
one thousand three hundred and fifty Tanks* 
Mr, Churchill told me that he agreed with Sir 
Eustace d'Eyncourt and me that quantities of 
Tanks were necessary for 1918, but as Minister 
of Munitions he could not argue with the Generals 
at the War Office about their requirements \ his 
business simply was to supply what they wanted. 
This appeared to us a crying shame. We knew 
the thousands of casualties that the Tanks had 
already saved in the attacks on the German 
machine gun positions* 

Next day, Sir E. d'Eyncourt and I asked for an 
interview with Mr, ChurchilL He refused to 
see Sir E, d'Eyn court and told me that, with 
regret, he had decided to appoint a new man in 
my place, and* therefore, there was no object in 
discussing the situation. He added that he was 
in power* and, therefore, it was his responsibility, 
and that he had taken the advice of the Council 
Member, Sir Arthur Duckham. I told him 
that I would not resign, as I believed it to be 


against the public interest, but that he could 
dismiss me. 

Next (Jay I received the following letter from 
him ;— 

" Ministry of Munitions, 

-Whitehall P!acc t SAV. 

** October i6th ( 1917. 
" Dear Colonel Stern, — As I told you in 
our conversation on Friday, I have decided, 
upon the advice of the Member of Council in 
whose group your department is, and after 
very careful consideration of all the circum- 
stances, to make a change in the headship of 
the Mechanical Warfare Supply Department- 

11 I propose therefore to appoint Vice* 
Admiral Sir Gordon Moore to succeed you 
and this appointment will be announced in 
the next two or three days* 

44 I shall be glad to hear from yon without 
delay whether those other aspects of activity 
in connection with the development of Tanks 
in France and America, on which Sir Arthur 
Duckham has spoken to you, commend them- 
selves to you. 

" Meanwhile, I must ask you to continue to 
discharge your duties until such time as yen 
are relieved* 

*' Yours very truly, 

u Winston S. Churchill/ 1 

I had an interview with Sir Arthur Duckham 
on the same day, and he told me that Mr, Churchi 1 
was unable to persuade the War Office to have a 
larger number of Tanks, but that as he was a 
believer in Mechanical Warfare, it was his 
opinion that America should be persuaded to 
arm herself with the necessary number of Tanks 
for next year's fighting* 

He told me that Mr, Churchill considered it 
my duty, as the War Office did not wish to 
develop Mechanical Warfare on a large scale, to 
undertake its development among the Allies and 
chiefly the Americans, At this time I also saw 
the Prime Minister and said that I was willing 
to undertake any duties which the country 
might call upon me to perforin. 

On October 29th I accepted the position of 

Commissioner for 
Mechanical War- 
fare (Overseas 
and Allies). On the 
same day I wanted 
Mr, Churchill once 
more that the progress 
of design and the out- 
put of the Tanks would 
most surely suffer. In 
the meantime. Admiral 
Sir A. G. H. W, Moore 
had been appointed 
the Controller of the 
Me c h anical Warfare 

Up to the date of 
fsis appointment , Ad' 

leven seen 





On April 8th, 191 8, Lord Milner, who up till 
this time had been Cabinet Minister at Versailles, 
and was now appointed Secretary of State for 
War, came to see me at the offices of the Mechani- 
cal Warfare (Overseas and Allies) Department 
in Paris. I explained to him the development 
of Mecharical Warfare and told him that the 
Tanks had great power of destruction quite out 
of proportion to their own total cost of humanity, 
which was limited to eight men a Tank. I told 
him that a special department, like the Air 
Ministry, should be formed, and that this Ministry 
or Board should be managed by those who had 
directed the development from the beg nning. 
In this way a highly technical development 
could be carried out by a practical man with the 
advice of the military authorities. 

I explained ■ that I had been removed from 
my position on the demand of the War 
Office l>ecause I had fought for the development 
of ^Mechanical Warfare and told the War Office 
that their preparations for 1 91 8 were entirely 
inadequate ; that the programme had now been 
increased, too late, from one * thousand three 
hundred and fifty to nearer five thousand ; that 
I had fought for the standardization of Mechani- 
cal Warfare against continual change of design, 
and that standardization was at last to be brought 
in by August, 191 8 — again too late. 
' I said that we had fought our hardest to prevent 
inexperienceel officers from ruining the one de- 
velopment in this country in which we had out- 
stripped the Germans, but that instead of 
continuing its healthy growth under imaginative 
practical men, it had been placed under the heel 
of elderly Service men, with the usual results ; 
{hat the modern methods of standardization 
and efficiency, untrammelled by Army procedure 
and prejudice, had been stamped out ; that the 
rules of the War Office made a civilian ineligible 
ever to become a soldier or to know anything 
about warfare, and that the' Army Act was waved 
before the eyes of any junior officer who had 
? ideas and dared to speak of them. 

Finally, I begged* him to see Sir Eustace 
d'Eyncourt and to discuss the question of some 
proper authority to control and develop Me- 
chanical Warfare. 

From this date a new era of progress started 
for Mechanical Warfare at the War Office, with 
Sir Henry Wilson as Chief of the Imperial General 
Staff and General Harrington as Deputy Chief. 


What did the Germans think of the Tanks ? 
It is credibly reported that when Hindenburg 
viritcd the German Tank centre near Charleroi 
in February, 191 8, he said, " I do not think that 
Tanks are any use, but as these have been made 
they may as well be tried." That he said this 
was certainly believed in the German Tank 
Corps, which was not much encouraged thereby, 
and, if he said it, he only repeated what Lord 
Kitchener had said of our Tanks three years 

[A fall account of the Tanks will appear in a book 

Messrs, Hodder 

before, when he first saw them at 

Other German Generals believed in them if 
Hindenburg did not, and the Commander of the 
17th German Army said of them : " Our Tanks 
strengthen the moral of the infantry to a tre- 
mendous extent even if used only in small 
numbers, and experience has shown that they 
have a considerable moral effect on hostile 

The great allied attack had only just begun 
when the German Government showed that it 
recognized the growing danger of the new weapon. 
Speaking in the Reichstag for the Minister of 
War, at the time of the battle of Amiens, General 
von Wrisberg said, " The American armies need 
not terrify us. We shall settle with them. 
More momentous for us is the question of Tanks." 
Then just before the end this message from the 
Prussian Minister of War was sent out :, " The 
superiority of the enemy at present is principally 
due to their use of Tanks. We have been 
actively engaged for a long time in working at 
producing this weapon- (which is recognized as 
important) in adequate numbers. We shall then 
have an additional means;for : the continuance 
of the war if we are compelled to continue it." 

So one of the last efforts to hearten the Gc rman 
people was a promise of Tanks. 
• But it is not with any reluctant tribute from 
a German that I .wish to end; ibis 'story of how 
we built the Tanks. I have" already quoted the 
British Commander-in-Chief *s;firstwords on them: | 
■" Wherever, the Tanks advanced; we took our -* 
objectives, and where they did got advance we 
failed to take our,objectiye$." .His last words, in 
his despatch of December £i&t; 1918, are these : — 
" Since the opening of our .qffensive on 
8th August, Tanks have, been employed in 
every battle, and the importance, of the pa't 
played by them in breaking the resistance of 
the German infantry can : scarcely be exag- 
gerated. The whole scheme of the attack of 
the 8th August , was dependent upon Tanks, 
and ever since that date on numberless 
occasions the success of our infantry has been 
powerfully assisted or confirmed by their 
timely arrival. So great has been the effect 
produced upon the German infantry by the 
appearance of British Tanks that in more 
than one instance,, when for various reasons 
real Tanks were not available in sufficient 
r umbers, valuable results have been obtained 
by the use of dummy Tanks painted on 
frames of wood and canvas 

" It is no disparagement of the courage of 
our infantry or of the skill and devotion ot 
our artillery to say that the achievements ot 
those ess ntial arms would have fallen short 
of the fuL measure of success achieved by our 
armies had it rot been for the very gallant 
and devoted work of the Tank Corps, under 
the command of Major-General H. J. Elles.' 

What we had claimed that the Tanks c uld do, 
they have done:. 

by Sir WERSIP^OF MH^IfMRM"* shortly by 
and Stoughton.] 



Illustrated by Will Owen. 

AMBLING I don't 'old with, said 
the night-watchman, pursing his 
lips, There's gamblers and gam- 
blers. There's people like myself 
as does it now and then out of 
good -nature, to oblige h and there's 
people like that squint-eyed, 
ginger-whiskered mate on the 
Queen Mary, If he J ad spent as much time 
Learning good manners as he *as learning the 
three-card trick, it would ha' been better for both 
of us. Especially me. 

He ain't the only one, I remember teaching 
draughts to a man I met one evening. He was a 
born fool to look at, and 'e looked just the same 
when 'e bid me " Good-night" with scven-and-six 
o' mine in 'is pocket. I 'card artcrwards that he 
could do anything with draughts except make 
'cm speak. 

Most sailormcn like a bit of a flutter. One 
chap I knew used to spend all his time ashore 
backing 'orses< When "e lost h 'e lost, and when 
he won the bookie used to get lost. And the 
only time he did get his winnings he got fourteen 
days for the way *e spent 'em. 

J remember one time when old Sam Small 
got a perfect craze for playing cards* His idea 
Vol kiit — 15. Copyright j igig. 

was to make some money for *is old age, ani3 p 
instead of going out and enjoying Mmself with 
Ginger Dick and Peter Russet, he sat all day in 
the bedroom being taught by a young professional 
sharper J e met in the Three Widders. He even 
leamt 'ow to do the three -card trick— arter a 
fashion — -and came round to show me one 
evening. We played for ha'pennies at fust* and 
I lost seven right off. Then we played for bobs, 
and it seemed as if I couldn't lose. I never see 
anybody so puzzled as Sam was, and then 'e 
turned round and said he'd been doing it all 
wrong, and asked for J is money back. I 'ad 
to be firm with 'im — -for his own sake. 

A man never knows 'is best friends. If he'd 
kept on playing cards with me, it would ha' 
been better for both of us i instead o* that, h« 
preferred to let strangers win *is money. He used 
to take 'em to his bedroom, and one night Gin gel 
couldn't get to bed because three or four of *em 
had J ad it ior a card -table and spilt a can of beei 
in it. 

He could have 'ad two beds next night* 'cos 
to their surprise Sam didn't come 'ome. He 
was still missing when they went out to brokfose 
next mqrp|i|^a^ came 

Ginger beganlfoieel iineasv"aDoui im. 

by W, W + Jacob* 



41 Mark my words," he ses to Peter Russet, 
"he's been and gorn and got into some trouble." 

" Any fool could see that," ses Peter. " 'Ow 
much money 'ad he got on 'im ? Besides the 
eight quid you are minding for 'im ? " 

Ginger shook his 'ead. " It's my belief he's 
been made away with," he ses, jingling the money 
in his trowsis-rocket. " It all comes of 'im 
thinking he can play cards." 

" P'r'aps I'd better mind 'arf of the money, 
in case you get robbed," ses Peter. 

Ginger didn't hear 'im. He was too busy 
thinkfng about pore Sam. By the time twelve 
o'clock came, and no Sam, they felt certain that 
something had 'appened to 'im, and Ginger kept 
Peter awake 'arf the night talking to *im about 
the 'appy times the three of them had 'ad 

" I suppose we must go out and try and eat 
something," he ses next morning, shaking his 

" I s'pose so," ses Peter, very sorrowful ; " but 
it's wasting good money." 

They went downstairs very slow, and opened 
the door just as % Sam's friend wot taught 'im 
'ow to play cards knocked on it. Sharp-faced 
young chap 'e was, with 'is eyes 'arf -closed and a 
fag stuck in the corner of 'is mouth. 

" 'Ullo, Ginger," he ses, nodding. 

" Wot do you want ? " ses Ginger, sniffing at 

" I've got a letter for you," he ses. 

Ginger held out his 'and for it and, arter 
speaking sharp to Peter Russet about good 
manners, stood reading it as though he couldn't 
believe 'is eyesight. 

" It's from Sam," he ses, at last. " He's lost 
all 'is money at cards, as I knew 'e would ; and 
'e wants me to send 'im five quid." 

" Wot 'e owes," ses the young chap. 

" He can go on owing it, then," ses Ginger, 
very firm. "If 'e wants 'is five quid let 'im 
come and fetch it." 

41 He can't," ses the young chap. 

" Can't ? Why not ? " ses Ginger, turning on 

" He's lost other things besides money," ses 
the chap. " He played the last two hands in 
'is shirt and cap, and 'e can't come 'ome in them. 
'Ow would you like it yourself ? Besides, think 
of the cold ! " 

"Shirt and cap ? " ses Ginger, staring at 'im. 

" He made 'imself a skirt out of a tater-sack 
this morning," ses the young chap. " It's a 
tight fit — still, it's better than nothing." 

" All right," ses Ginger, arter a few words 
on the quiet with Peter Russet, " we'll come 
with you and see wot can be done. Where is 

" Find out," ses the chap. " Why don't you 
give me the money same as your pal tells you 
to ? Wot are you wasting time like this for ? 
It's his money. He 'asn't 'ad nothing to eat 
since yesterday arternoon. D'you want 'im to 
starve ? " 

Ginger led Peter away again. 

" We'll lay low and toiler 'im 'ome," he ses, 
in a whisper. 

" Wot about brekfuss ? " ses Peter. " I want 
mine something cruel." 

" Plenty o' time," ses Ginger. " Think o' pore 
Sam ; nothing to eat since yesterday arternoon." 

He turned back to the young man, wot was 
doing a double-shuffle on the pavement and 
looking up at the chimbley-pots. 

" Why don't you tell us where 'e is ? " he ses, 
in a sharp voice. 

" Fancy," ses the chap, lighting another fag. 

" You won't get no five pounds out o' me," 
ses Ginger. " Come along, Peter ; we'll go back 
indoors and wait for Sam to come home. You 
go and tell 'im wot I said," he ses, turning to the 

" Right-o," ses th# young feller, turning away. 
" So long » " 

They stood peeping out of the doorway till 
he 'ad turned the corner, and then they set off 
arter 'im. It was easy work in a way, 'cos he 
never looked behind 'im ; but 'e seemed to be 
fonder o' walking than wot they was, and 
besides, as Peter said, no doubt he had 'ad a 
good brekfuss afore 'e started. 

" P'r'aps he ain't going 'ome," ses Ginger, 
looking puzzled. " This is the third time he 
'as been in the Minories." 

They followed 'im into Tower Street — it was 
on'y the second time they 'ad been there — and 
then to their thankfulness he turned into a pub. 
They went in too — into another bar — and Ginger 
'ad just ordered two pints in a whisper, and paid 
for 'em, when the chap finished his beer and 
walked out. Pore Ginger didn't even 'ave time 
to taste his, and the one mouthful Peter 'ad time 
to take went the wrong way. It was a big mouth- 
ful, and for a couple o' minutes he thought it was 
'is last. Then he got 'is breath back, and, arter 
asking the landlord whether he thought 'e was 
beating carpets, went out to look for Ginger. 
He caught 'im up arter a time, and they went 
on walking till they felt ready to drop. 

" I believe 'e knows we are follering 'im," ses 

They went on for another 'arf hour, and then 
to Peter's joy they saw the ehap, arter standing a 
long time looking at the things in a cook-shop 
winder, go inside. 

" He's going to 'ave his dinner," he ses, " and 
while he's 'aving it we'll go and 'ave some bread 
and cheese and beer." 

" And suppose he slips out while we're away ? " 
ses Ginger. 

" Well, we'll go one at a time," ses Peter. 

" No, we won't," ses Ginger. " I ain't going 
to lose 'im arter all this trouble, and when we 
do find out where 'e lives I might want your 

They stood outside waiting for over a hour, 
and then the young feller came out wiping his 
mouth on the back of his 'and. He stood for a 
moment looking up and down the street till 'is 
eyes fell on Ginger, wot was trying to get behind 
Peter, and Peter wot was trying to get behind 

" 'UUo," he ses. coming up. " Fancy dropping 
acrost you agin like this ! 'Ave you been 'aving 
a little walk to stretch your legs ? " 



" Yes ; and we ain't finished yet," ses Ginger, 
very fierce, 

" I'll come with you, if you like/' ses the chap. 
H I ain't proud." 

" When we want your company we'll ask you 
for it," ses Peter, 

" Don't get cross," ses the young fell en pre- 
tending to shiver. " 'Cos if you do I might get 
frightened and run. Last time I was frightened 
by a ugly face I run three miles without stopping," 

He lit a fag and stood there with 'is eyes 'arf 
dosed, blowing smoke through 'is nose. Peter 
and Ginger stood there, waiting while 'e smoked 
two of 'em, and then waited outside a tobacco- 
shop while 'e went in to buy another packet, 
He got larky arter coming out, and when *e tried 
to strike a match on Ginger's trows is people 'ad 
tr> step off the pavement 'cos Ginger was using 
it all. 

He moved off with Peter as he saw a police- 
man coming along, and then to ttu-ir surprise 
they found that the young feller was following 
them. It upset their ideas altogether, and all 
of a sudden Ginger stopped and turned on 

" Why don't you go 'ome ? " he ses, 

*' Wot's the good without the money ? " ses 
the chap, " Wot's the good of going back and 
telling a starving old man in a tater-sack that 
his pals won't help 'im ? " 

" Why can't we take it to 'im ? " ses Peter. 

"He wouldn't 

like it," ses 
the chap. "He 
said so. Besides, 
when you got 
there you might 
try and get 'im 
out without pay- 
ing ." 

"Well, we'll 
give you the 
money now, and 
then come with 
you/' ses Ginger. 

" Why couldn't 
you say so afore ? ' ' 
ses the other. 
' 'Ere we've been 
wasting the whole 
morning for noth- 

They all went 
into a pub and 
arter Ginger and 
Peter had 'ad a 
pint or two, and 
a crust o' bread 
and cheese, Ginger 
handed over the 
money and they 
aJl went out to- 
gether, with the 
young man in the 
middle. Ginger's 
opinion of 'im 
went up as they 
walked along, 

and. when he led 'em into another pub a little 
further on, and asked 'em wot they would 'ave. 
he got to feel quite a liking for 'im. 

They 'ad a pint each, and, while Peter was 
resting 'arf-way through hir. the young man 
thought 7 c saw a spider drop into it. Ginger 
elped Peter to look for it but they couldn't 
find it, and arter that they wasted a lot of time 
looking for the young man, but they couldn't 
rind 'im neither. 

" If you'd kept your eye on 'im instead o' 
fishing round in my beer with your dirty finder, 
it 'ud ha r been better." ses P^ter. 

They walked 'ome, quarrelling all the way, and 
then they sat indoors all the evening waiting 
for Sam to turn up so as they could tell 'im wot 
they thought of 'im. 

They sat there till eleven o'clock, and then 
they went to bed wondering wot had 'appened 
to 'im ; and when they got up next morning 
Ginger said he 'ad a feeling that they should 
never see 'im again. 

" He's gorti where we've aU got to go," he ses f 
shaking his 'cad. 

" Unless we join the Salvation Army*" ses 
Peter, fl There's plenty o' time afore we get 
to his age." 

" He's been made away with, that's my 
opinio n." ses Ginger. " We shidl never see 'im 
agin, any more than we- shall see that monkey- 
faced chap that gave us the slip yesterday/' 

They went 


downstairs to go 
out and get some 
brekfuss, and the 
very fust thing 
they saw was the 
young feller, lean- 
ing up agin the 
wall, smoking a 

"THIol" he 
ses, " Did you 
find the spider ? " 

Ginger couldn't 
answer 'im for a 
minute. He stood 
there staring at 
bin as if he was a 

11 Wot did you 
run off for ? " he 
ses, at last, growl- 
ing at 'im. 

" Me ? " ses the 
other. " I didn't 
run off. But I 
thought that if 
pore old Sam *ad 
to wait till you 
found that spider 
he'd never get 'is 

" Is he alive?" 
ses B&ten 

"Alive?*' ses 


*3 5 


shall be arf as lively at 'is age as wot he is. 
I've got another letter for you." 

He fished it out of 'is pocket and handed it to 
Ginger, and then stood sucking his teeth and 
looking at the winder opposite while Ginger 
read it. 

It was a longer letter than the other. One 
thing was Sam called 'imself a silly fool two or 
three times over 'cos he 'ad gambled away the 
five pounds. He wanted Ginger to send 'im the 
other three, and said as 'ow he had 'ad awful 
bad luck, and never wanted to see a card agin 
as long as 'e lived. He told Ginger to give the 
other three pounds to 'is friend Sid, wot took the 
five pounds, and said if they followed 'im again 
he would never forgive 'im. 

" Fair old cough -drop, ain't he ? " ses the 
young feller. 

" He's fell into bad 'ands," ses Ginger, glaring 
at him. 

" That's right," ses Sid, " and we've got to 
get 'im out. You find the ready, and I'll do the 

Ginger read the letter agin, arter Peter 'ad 
done with it, and then 'e told the chap to wait 
while he went indoors for the money. W~.t 'e 
really went indoors for was to tell the landlady's 
gal, a smart little kid of eleven, as 'ad two bilious 
attacks a week reg'lar to stay at 'ome and 'e'p 
*er mother, to f oiler Mr. Sid 'ome. 

"Here's the thiee quid," 'e ses, coming out. 
" Take it and go." 

" And let's 'ope he won't lose that," sc<s Sid. 
" Are you coming to see me as far as the — -I mean, 
as far as you can ? " 

" I am not," ses Ginger. 

" Ah, well, I don't blame you," se-, Sid. " It's 
a waste of your time and mine too. ain't it ? 
The last chap that tried to foller me 'ome seemed 
to think I lived in the canal. I never see a chap 
make 'imself so wet." 

He gave Peter a playful little tap in the 
stummick, and, arter asking Ginger for a lock 
of his 'air to frighten the gals with, went off 
whistling. And he had 'ardly turned the corner 
afore the little gal was arter 'im. 

By the time Peter and Ginger was back from 
their brekfuss she was home agin, 'aving follered 
the young man to his 'ouse, and seen 'im go 
inside. He didn't seem to 'ave any idea that 
'e was being follered ; and Ginger was so pleased 
with 'imself and 'is cleverness that Peter 'ad 
to remind 'im of all sorts of things he didn't 
want to be reminded of. 

They waited in for some time to see if Sam 
came 'ome, but there was no sign of 'im, and 
Ginger began to wonder whether he 'ad lost 
the three quid as well as the five. 

" We'll give 'im till eight o'clock," he ses. 
" And if he ain't 'ome by then we'll go round and 
fetch 'im." 

" It's my belief they won't let 'im go," ses 

" Or pVaps he's lost 'is trowsis agin," ses 
Ginger. " We'll take his other pair with us 
in case. And we'll get one or two to come, 
with us to see fair play." 

They picked up a couple o' firemen they knew, 

that arternoon. Stiff-built chaps they was, and 
always ready for a bit of trouble, 'aving both 
'ad Irish mothers. They 'ad a few drinks to 
steady themselves, and then one of 'em, Bob 
Mills by name, got so upset because Ginger 
said he thought it 'ud be better not to burn 
the 'ouse down, that it took three men and the 
landlord to get 'im outside. 

They went 'ome fust to see whether Sam 'ad 
turned up, and then, arter waking Bob, who 
'ad gorn to sleep in Peter's bed, they set off to 
find 'im. It was a tall, dirty house, just off the 
'Ighway, and Ginger began to think that if 
they got Sam out in one piece they'd be lucky. 
The front-door was open and a lot o' dirty- 
looking kids was playing on the steps. 

" It's like a bee-hive," ses Peter. " He'll 
take some finding." 

" I'll find 'im," ses Bob, spitting on his hands. 
" Come along." 

He led them up the steps and opened the fust 
door 'e come to as bold as brass, and popped 
his 'ead in. 

" Where's old Sam ? " he ses, to a woman 
wot left off washing 'er baby to stare at 'im. 
" Wot 'ave you done with 'im ? " 

" Wot ? " ses the woman. 

" We want Mr. Sam Small," ses Ginger, 
putting his 'ead over Bob's shoulders. 

" Wot 'ave you done with 'im ? " ses Bob, 

" Me ? " ses the woman. " Wot are you 
talking about ? 'Ow dare you come shoving 
your ugly mug into a lady's room and try and 
take away 'er character? Wot d'ye mean by 

She put .the baby down on the floor very 
careful and took up the basin o' water. It 
was a small basin, but the water showed that 
the baby 'adn't been washed afore it wanted 
it, and B3b fclills was out 'o that room afore you 
could say " knife." 

" He ain't there," he ses, as the door banged 
be'ind 'im. " It's a funny thing a woman 
can never answer a civil question without 
losing 'er temper. If I 'adn't kept my eye on 
'er I should have 'ad that water over me." 

" They don't use their reason," ses Ginger, 
shaking his 'ead, and stopping at the next door 
to let 'im go in fust. 

There was nobody in that room except a 
little gal of ten putting 'er little brothers to 
bed, and the way she carried on when Bob 
looked in would ha' done credit to a woman of 
seventy. He came out gasping for breath. 

" I'll find 'im though," he ses to Ginger. 
" I'll find 'im if I 'ave to take all the boards up. 
Now wot about trying upstairs ? " 

There was two families in the fust room they 
went in, and they was both worse than each 
other. People came out of their rooms to 
listen and the way they carried on when Ginger 
and 'is pals paid them a visit won't bear repeating. 
By the time they 'ad got to the second floor 
the whole 'ouse was rousea and standing be- 
hind and offering to light 'em. 

Bob and ir* ]>\l went into the fust room on 
that floor alone, 'cos Ginger and Peter 'ad to 



stay outside on the landing to keep the crowd 
back- 'Ard work it was> too ; one young 
woman trying to bore holes in Peter with a 
broom- 'audio, while a dirty hand with a wedding- 
ring on it kept coming out of the crowd and 
pinching pore Ginger black and bine. 

In the middle of it there was a hullabaloo 
in that room that made 'em all leave off to 
listen. Deafening it was. People shouting 
and struggling and things toppling about all 
over the place. Then Bob and "is mate came 
out carrying something that looked like a mad 
lion wrapped up in a blanket. 

"He was in bed, arJeep," ses Bob, panting, 
as a couple o* naked legs shot out and kicked 
anything they could find* fi Pull your end o' 
the blanket down, Joe/' 

tf Wot*s he done ? " sea a woman, gaping at 

u Wot *ave you done, you mean/' ses Bob, 
Struggling. * + He's been kidnapped " 

(I And robbed," ses Ginger, shouting with 
pain, as 'e got another pinch. 

" It's all right Sam, old man.* 1 Fes Peter, 
pulling hack the blanket to give "im a little 
air, "Now — Lor* lumine this aini Sam / ** 

They all started, and Bob was so surprised 
that he let go of 'is end. It was the Vad end, 
and the langwidge the old man it belonged to 
used was awful. Then T e got up very slow, 
and, arter feeling his 'ead and using some mare 
langwidge about a bump *e found there, knocked 
Bob down. 

In two twos they was all at it ; the men fight- 
ing and the women c creaming. Men Ginger 

hadn't seen afore seemed to turn up from no- 
where to punch 5 im + The (our of *em kept to- 
gether as well as they could, and even when 
Ginger got to the bottom of the stairs 'e found 
the other three on top of 'im. They got outside 
at last, helped bc'ind by the people in the 'ouse, 
and didn't slop for breath till tfiey was two 
streets away. Bob Mills found 'is fust, and 
pretty near got run in lor it, 

" I ought to take you by rights." ses the 
policeman. " Wot 'ave you been doing to your 
face ? Treading on it ? " 

Bob was going to answer J im, but Ginger 
got his *and over 'is mouth just in time, 

" It's all right, sir," he ses, very perlite, 
" he's on'y a little bit excited, Come on, 

They managed to get 'im round the corner, 
and then r e shook 'em off and said he never 
wanted to see 'em again* He went off with 
'is mate, and Peter and Gingei, arter being 
refused at three pubs because of their looks, 
sent a young feller in for a bottle o' whisky 
to take 'orne with them. 

They 'ad a drop or two when they got indoors, 
and then they got a bit o' rag and some cold 
water and began to see wot they could do for 
their faces 

11 And this is all through Sam," ses Ginger, 
starting to grind 'is teeth and then finding they 
was too loose to grind. 

M It's a mystery/* ses Peter, who nas sitting 
on Sam's bed 'olding a wet rag to his eye* u I 
believe you was right, Ginger, Something 
seem? to tell me we shall never see J im agin/' 


where's old sam ? ' he ses, to a woman wot left off washing Xr baby to stare 


2 3 S 



Ginger said he didn't want to* His mouth 
was so sore 'e couldn't smoke, and arter another 
drop or two of whisky, *e said J c was going to 

He undressed 'imself very slow, grunting and 
groaning all the time, and was just getting into 
bed when Peter 'eld up his 'and. 

" Somebody corning upstairs/' he ses. 

*' Let J ern come/* ses Ginger, very grumpy. 

" It— it can't be Sam I " ses Peter. 

" Sounds like 'im/' ses Ginger, staring. " It 
is 'im," he ses, as they both 'eard a noise that Sam 
used to make when J e thought 'e was singing- 

They stood staring at the door as it opened and 
Sam came into the room, looking very bright 
and pleased with 'imself. 

m T U!lo, mates I " he sea. " Why— wot the— 
Wot 'ave you been doing to yourselves ? " 

He shook his J ead, and screwed up 'is lips at 

" It's a funny thing I can't go away for a day 
or two without you getting into trouble/ 1 he ses, 
M 'Tain't respectable/ 1 

f J Ho I " ses Ginger, finding 'is voice. " Ho, 
indeed. This is all the thanks we get for trying 
to *elp you, is it ? I a 'pose you think it's more 
respectable to lose your trowsis at cards and play 
in your shirt/* 

'* And a tater-sack/' ses Peter, 

11 Trowsis ! M ses Sam, staring at 'em, '* tater- 
sack ? 'Ave you been drinking ? or wot ? " 

Digitized by C-OOQ I C 

Ginger looked at Peter and then 'e looked very 
h ard at Sam. 

" Where— 'ave — -you — been ? " he ses, very 
slow and distinct. 

" Been staying with a chap at Stratford/' 
ses Sam, 'el ping 'imself to a drink. " My 
friend Sid told me as he'd 'eard the police was 
arter me for gambling, so I've been staying 
with a pal of 'is for a few days to let it bJow 

" And— and didn't you write to us ? JJ ses 
Ginger, as soon as he could speak, 

*" Why, wot should I want to write to you lor ? " 
ses 3am, putting down 'is glass^ 

" Money/' ses Ginger, looking 'ira straight in 
the eye, 

Sam shook his "ead, " 1 'ad enough on me," J he 
ses, " but it was just as well I left that eight quid 
with you, Ginger. It might 'ave gorn if I 'adn't. 
Wot was it you was saying about trowsis and 
tater-sacks, Peter ? M 

" It J s a joke of your friend, Sid's/' says Ginger, 
u Ask him to tell it to you ; you seem to tell 4m 

Him and Peter woke up at five o'clock next 
morning to go and look for fresh lodgings. Sam 
didn't wake up till eight, and then, arter reading 
a couple o* letters 'e found tucked under 'is 
chin, he went off without any brekfuss to look 
for Ginger and Peter, and Sid t and eight quid. 




nose- that Help J •* 
Those that Harm 

By Dr W. E. COLL1NGE,, etc., 

Of the University of St. Andrews. 


An article not only of tkc greatest practical interest, but of tne utmost' 
value to all wLo have to do witk farm or garden. 


HE problem of wild bird pre- 
servation and destruction is no 
new one, but it has during the 
past quarter of a century forced 
itself upon the consideration of 
practically all civilized countries. 
At the outset let us state that 
in reviewing this difficult sub- 
ject we have endeavoured to place on one side all 
sentimental and aesthetic considerations, and to 
view the matter purely from an economic aspect, 
based almost entirely upon careful investiga- 
tions extending over many years. Hearsay, 
rumour, and the opinion of bird-lovers must of 
necessity be disregarded if we are to arrive at 
any just and exact conclusions. 

Briefly, the problem may be stated as follows. 
We have, roughly speaking, about three hun- 
dred and eighty species of wild birds in the 
British Isles, a large percentage of which are so 
rare or so small in numbers that they may here 
be left out of consideration. The truly insec- 
tivorous species and most of the aquatic and 
littoral -habiting species affect the question only 
in so far as their preservation is highly important, 
so that the list of so-called injurious species is 

reduced to what we might term the commonest 
species and a few gulls. 

For a moment let us consider the nature of the 
injuries and the losses entailed. 

It will be generally agreed that any attempt 
to state the loss occasioned by wild birds can only 
be approximately correct. Quite recently, in 
the controversy regarding the injuries inflicted 
by the house-sparrow, a writer states: " Ignoring 
the waste of grain in the field, the harm done to 
grain that is sprouting or milting, and the rob- 
beries from shed and threshing-floor, quays and 
stables, etc., and assuming that each acre is 
ravaged for eight or ten days of a peck a day 
valued at two shillings, we have to face a possible 
loss of bread-stuffs alone to the tune of one 
pound per acre. As we should have approxi- 
mately eight million acres under grain this year, 
191 7, the possible cost of allowing sparrows to 
multiply reaches the incredible figure of eight 
million pounds." 

The losses borne by fruit-growers due to the 
ravages of blackbirds, starlings, bullfinches, etc., 
are we!l known, and what thf^r total financially 
must reach a figure equally astonishing. 

Ahyone who has followed the letters in the 

2 4° 




Times and other papers 
during the past J line or ten 
years will be acquainted with 
the farmers' opinion of the 
rook and the wood -pigeon, 
and can vaguely estimate 
the enormous loss of food 
products these birds destroy. 
Personally, we have esti- 
mated the annual financial 
losses due to injurious birds 
and the destruction of bene- 
ficial ones at a sum equalling 
at least forty mi 11 km pounds. 

Almost naturally, a num- 
ber of questions arise in the 
mind of the thoughtful 
reader. ** How are we to 
know which species are 
injurious and which bene- 
ficial ? " 

Experience has shown that by the employment 
of the following method a very accurate know- 
ledge may be obtained of a bird's feeding 
habits and the nature of its food. 

Firstly, it is necessary that the collection of 
information should extend over the whole of 
the twelve months of the year, and, if possible, 
for successive years. The material should he 
obtained from various localities regularly, i.e, t 
two examples each week. Secondly, the greatest 
care must be used in identifying the food 
materials and in estimating their percentages* 
For this latter purpose it is now generally agreed 
that the only scientific method is that known as 
the volumetric one. The nature of the food 
brought to the nest by the parents during the 
breeding season must also be taken into account, 
as well as the nature of the feces and the faecal 
matter extruded from the nest. Finally, it is 
also important that we should bear in mind the 
rate of digestion of the different food materials* 

If sufficient care is exercised in the above 








work and the results are fairly interpreted, then 
it is possible to answer the question, " Is this 
or that species of bird beneficial t injurious, or 
nrtitral ? " 

The Evidence, — Although the number of 
species that have been subjected to the above 
method of investigation are comparatively few, 
they at once vindicate its value, Let us take 

the ca^e of the 
J& rook. 


For many years 
past the farmer 
has pointed out 
that this bird was 
so plentiful that 
it annually occa- 
sioned an enormous 
amount of damage, par- 
ticularly to cereal and 
root crops ; on the other 
hand* the general public, 
with little or no know- 
ledge of its feeding habits, 
stated that it was " the 
farmers 1 friend/ 1 and a 
most useful and bene- 
ficial bird. 

Set long ago as 1896 
Gilmour, after conduct* 
ing an important inquiry, wrote: 
" At least three-fourths of rook-food 
(81 per cent.) is cereal grain and 
husk, with insect and grub ; also that 
grain and husk are at least twice as 
frequently met with as insects and grubs. Thi3 
is the essence of the evidence extracted from tie 
gizzards of three hundred and thirty-six rooks 
shot at intervals all the year round. Grain and 
husks are above everything the food of the rook. 
Taken altogether/' he concludes, " the rook 
has almost no claim to agricultural regard." 
Thring examined onu hundred and forty-one 
spe^ffl^^^|e^i"^j^e|-|^^tt at intervals of a 
few days throughout one whole year {1908), and 


24 r 



insects, insect larvae, etc. We have 
too many rooks > and ( in conse- 
quence, they have changed their 
feeding habits. 


The starling is another bird about 
which there is a very divided opinion, 
and yet nearly everyone who has 
investigated its feeding habits has 
condemned it, Twenty-one years 
ago Gilmour regarded it "as a 
friend of the fanner," but during 
the intervening period there has 
been an enormous increase of these 
birds 111 the British Isles, partly due 
to immigration and partly to pro- 
tection, so that at the present time 
they constitute a veritable plague* 

An analysis of the total food 
consumed in a year by three hun- 
dred and sixty-eight starlings shows 
that 51 per cent, consists of animal matter 
and 49 per cent- of vegetable matter. Of the 
former 26 -5 per cent, is composed of injurious 
insects, 35 per cent, of neutral insects, 25 per 
cent, of beneficial injects, 85 per cent, of earth - 
worms, 65 per cent, of slugs, 1-5 per cent, of 
millipede*, and 2 per cent, of miscellaneous 

showed that a very considerable 
amount of grain was destroyed. 

In igoS-g the writer examined 
six hundred and thirty-one speci- 
mens, and a further series later* 
so that we can now state in exact 
terms the precise position that this 
bird occupies. Of the total annual 
consumption of food 41 per cent, is 
animal matter and 59 per cent, 
vegetable matter. The former is 
composed of 239 per cent, of in- 
jurious insects, 35 per cent* t>f 
beneficial insects, 46 per cent, of 
neutral insects* 32 ptr cent, of 
slugs and snails, 44 per cent, of 
earthworms, and 14 pei cent, of 
eggs, mice, etc* The vegetable 
matter is composed of 35-1 per 
cent, of cereals, 134 per cent, of 
potatoes and roots, 44 per cent, of 
weed seed, and 6 - i per cent, of 
miscellaneous vegetable matter ol a 
neutral nature. It will thus be seen 
that the injuries total 52 per cent., 
the benefits 285 per cent., and 

19"5 per cent, of the food is of a 

neutral nature. 
Later examinations by other 

workers only serve to corroborate 

the above results. It seems clear, 

therefore, as the result of the above 

inquiries, that the rook prefers a 

Rrain diet, and that it annually 

consumes an enormous amount of cereals which 

far outweigh the good it does by destroying 


SIDERABLY murk <;oou 

Original from 

constitute 2 05 per cent, of the vegetable matter, 






whilst 15 per cent, consists of cultivated fruits. 
2 "5 per cent, of roots and leaves, 7*5 per cent, of 
wild fruits and weed seeds, and 3*5 per cent, of 
miscellaneous vegetable matter of a neutral 
nature. Summarizing these figures it is seen 
that of the total amount of food consumed 
36- 5 per cent, is beneficial, 41 per cent* injurious, 
and 22 5 per cent, neutral. 


Thu, beautiful and interesting bird has 
been accused of damaging seed corn, etc.. 
and of recert years its numbers have been 
considerably reduced in many districts. An 
examination of the stomach contents of one 
hundred and twenty-eight adults shows that 
only 25 per cent* of the total food consumed in a 
year consists of animal matter, the remaining 
75 per cent, being vegetable food. Injurious 
insects constitute 165 per cent, of the former, 
lieneficial insects 1*5 per cent., neutral insects 
45 per cent,, spiders 1 per cent., and earth- 
worms 1 -5 per cent. Of the vegetable food 
56 per cent, consists of weed seeds, 4*5 per cent, 
of blossom buds, 3*5 per cent, of fruit pulp, 
85 per cent* of cereals, and 3-5 per cent, of 
miscellaneous vegetable matter of a neutral 
nature. In other words 65 5 per cent, of this 
bird's food is of a neutral nature, 16 5 per cent, 
beneficial, and 18 per cent, injurious. 

No protection, at present, is needed for the 
chaffinch, but a careful consideration of the food 
items shows that its destruction would be a loss, 
for its destruction of injurious insects more than 
compensates for the in- 
juries It inflicts. 


In nearly every fruit- 
growing district in the ViQGUjJ 
country there is an annual 

outcry against the bullfinch. The 
liarm it does is most serious, but 
its handsome appearance has gained 
for it many friends. Thus, one 
describes it as M a perfectly harm- 
less and altogether desirable neigh - 
bour h as it feeds on hedge fruits, 
seeds of dock, thistle, and other 
weeds, except in February and 
March, when it docs serious damage, 
if not watched, to the gooseberry, 
plum, and damson buds. It is never 
necessary, howc%'er, to shoot it. 1 
How entirely different is the opinion of one 
who ha? carefully studied this bird's feeding 
habits I Mr. Cecil H. Hooper writes : *' It has 
been briefly described as not having one re* 
deeming feature save his appearance. , . . When 
numerous in a fruit-growing district, it seems that 
f.»r self-protection they must Ik killed, as tin 
damage they do to the buds is a very serious 

An investigation made by the writer during 
1907-11, in which four hundred and eighty-four 
p>st -mortem examinations were made, clearly 
reveals the true character of this blrd + During 
the whole of this inquiry only a single stomach 
was found to contain fragments of an insect. 
Of the total bulk of food consumed 41 per cent, 
consisted of fruit buds and fruit lets, 15 per cent 
of wild fruits, amongst which the blackberry is 
included, and 44 per cent, of weed seeds. 

That the bullfinch helps in the distribution of 
such obnoxious weeds as charlock, dock, ground- 
sel, and sow-thistle, we have proved by actual 
experimentation with the droppings. 

If we rightly interpret the above figures the 
bullfinch stands condemned, but in addition to 
this it is well known to wantonly destroy as 
many fruit buds as are actually eaten, or even 
a larger number* Handsome as this bird 
undoubtedly is , it is an enemy of the fruit-grower 
and should therefore not be protected, 


This beautiful songster has been destroyed 
in great numbers on account of its supposed 
injury to wheat and small seeds , but an 
examination of the stomach contents of sixty - 
nine specimens shows that the benefits it confers 
are out of all proportion to the injuries* Its 
food consists of 46 per cent, of animal matter 
and 54 per cent, of vegetable matter. Of the 
former 35 5 per cent* is composed of injurious 
insects, 3*4 per cent, of neutral insects, 25 per 
cent* of beneficial insects, 2 per cent, of earth- 
worms, 1 per cent, of slugs, and 1-5 per cent, of 





miscellaneous animal matter. Of the vegetable 
food 43" 5 pet cent, consists of the seeds of weeds p 
9 5 per cent, of grain, and r per cent* of the Leaves 
of crops . Summarizing these figures we find 
that 365 per cent, of the total bulk of food con- 
sumed is beneficial, only 13 per cent, injurious, 
and 50 5 per cent, of a neutral nature. This 
analysis at once disposes of the charge that the 
skylark is injurious ; on the other hand, it shows 
that it is a most beneficial bird, and one that the 
farmer should demand most stringent pro- 
tection for. The migratory birds that arrive 
m the autumn, when found 
in large numbers and doing 
harm, should of course be ^ il 


There are few birds so bene- 
ficial to mankind as the tits, 
and yet they are destroyed by 
gardeners and fruit-growers 
t h rnughou 1 1 he CO u n tr y . Nn 
wonder that injurious insects flourish when 
man, in his ignorance, acts in a manner so 
stupid. An analysis of the stomach contents 
reveals the startling fact that 78 per cent, 
of the blue tit's food consists of injurious 
insects and r per cent* of spiders, the 
balance consisting of 85 per cent, of wild fruits 
and the seeds of weeds, 25 per cent, of grass and 
miscellaneous vegetable matter, 6 per cent, of 
fruit pulp, 2 per cent* of blossom buds, and 2 per 
cent, of wheat. Only 10 per cent, of its food is 
injurious and 12 per cent* neutral. The groat tit 
is equally beneficial, and both species should be 
most stringently protected — both the birds and 
their eggs. 


The economic status of the thrushes has long 
been a vexed question. That they destroy a 
certain amount of fruit every grower is aware, 
but what has not until quite recently been 
known is the ratio this amount of fruit holds to 
the other food items. We are now in posses- 
sion of this knowledge, which shows that both 
species do considerably more good than harm. 
We may group the food items of the two species 
together :— 




Injurious Insects * 




Stags and Snails 





t a 3 

— ■ 


Cultivated Fruits 




Beneficial Insects 



2T r o 

Wild Fruits and 


jL'CQS « • an 




Miscellaneous Vege- 

table Matter . . 




Neutral Insects . * 








Animal Matter, . 





It is obvious that both of these species confer 
far more bene tits than injuries, and that the fruit- 
grower must suffer by their destruction. 


Little need be said with reference to the 
house-sparrow. At the present time it is so 
abundant as to be one of the most serious 
enemies of the farmer ; moreover, as has fre- 
quently been pointed out, in many districts it 
has driven away the house -mart in, an insecti- 
vorous species and an rxtremely valuable one. 
In agricultural districts 75 per cent, of the 
sparrows food consists of grain, 10 per cent, of 
weed seeds, 5 per cent* of injurious insects, and 
10 per cent, of neutral matter. In fruit-growing 
districts only 7 per cent, consists of grain, o per 
cent, of blossom buds, 60 per cent, of injurious 
insects* 10 per cent, of weed seeds, 10 per cent, 
of neutral matter, and 4 per cent, of miscellaneous 
food. The real trouble with the sparrow is that 
we have allowed it to increase to ?uch an txtent 
that throughout the land it has become a plague. 

Few wild birds have been subjected to 
greater persecution than the kestrel, and 
yet its value to the farmer can scarcely be 
over-estimated. Animal matter constitutes 99 
per cent, of its :Ipchi # of which 64' 5 per cent, 

consists p|.j i^pe^-j^py^Q^prj^e^r hfl^A h-P^ 1 " ceilt " °* 
injurious" insects", 05" per "cent/ of sparrows. 








blackbirds t etc., 6 per cent, of nestling birds, 25 
per cent- of earthworms, and I per cent, of frogs. 
"With such a record it is surely not necessary to 
plead for the protection of this bird. If < air farms 
have to be kept clear of mice and voles , the 
kestrel must be allowed to thrive and flourish. 


The value of this bird to the farmer has been 
extolled by practically every writer who has de- 
scribed its habits. There is a unanimous opinion 
as to its great value, and yet it is still unprotected 
in some parts of the country and is undoubtedly 
decreasing. Almost the whole of its food consists 
of injurious insects, viz., 60 per cent., 10 per cent* 

of slugs and snails. io 
per cent, of earth- 
worms, 6 per cent, of 
weed seeds* 4 per cent, 
of neutral insects* and 5 
per cent- each of miscel- 
laneous animal and vege- 
table matter. In other 
words, 70 per cent, of 
its food is directly bene- 
ficial to the farmer, and the 
remaining 30 per cent, is of 
a neutral nature, 

That this bird and its eggs 
are not most strict!} protected 
1 h roughout the year is a striking 
commentary on our present 
policy as regards wild birds. 
The whole of its food consists of 
animal matter, of which 7^5 per 
cent, consists of injurious in 
sects, 68 5 per cent, of mice and 
voles, 9" 5 per cent, of house- 
sparrows, starlings, and black- 
birds, per cent, of shrew-mice, 
4" 5 per cent, of small birds, and 
1 per cent, of neutral insects. 
Thus 8$*5 per cent, of the food 
is beneficial, 13' 5 per cent, injurious, 
and r per cent, neul rah 

The Need for Action, —After what has 
been said, one must be blind to facts 
or wilfully capable of misinterpreting 
them to doubt the necessity for some 
immediate and drastic action, 

No one who has studied this important and 
extremely difficult subject wishes for a moment 
to offer undue protection to birds as a class ; on 
the other hand, there are few species so injurious 
that we are justified in urging their complete 
extermination. Such a policy economically is 
unsound, but where they become too numerous, 
at times it becomes necessary to destroy them, 
and where, thmugh various causes, their numbers 
become unduly reduced or where the species is 
wholly beneficial, it is equally necessary and 
important to protect them ; and this is the prin- 
ciple which should underlie all sound legislation 
upon the subject* 


The order of popularity of the twelve comic pictures, ns *hown by the voting, i^ as follows ! — 

Fint * Picture. No, 2 Fourth - Picture No. \2 Seventh - Picture No, 4 Tenth - Picture No, 8 
Second - 11 Fifth m 7 Eighth * 3 Eleventh «. r> 

Third „ 10 SUth ., 9 Ninth ., 1 Twelfth ,. 6 

No competitor succeeded in placing all the pictures in this order and the best list contained two mistakes. This was sent Ln by 

M. ROSS. 57. Rftren Road. London, EL, to whom » fcw-j-ded the FIRST PRIZE of £100. 
Tice Second Prize of £25 is won by Corkoral S, W h Larnef, 6194S. Depot Bedford Regiment. No, a Company^ Kempston 
HarcnU, neat Bedford, Reds K with a list combining four mistakes; white \^>t •.-umpciiiors witi ;i Prize of £5 each NX uki *i[h Kvi 
mistakes. Their names and addresses are: PrE, J^ Bcchanan, 55:0676, C.A. P.C., P.M. Branch, j T Mil [tank, London, S.W.i; 
H. Ha* ding, Ryecroft* Glutton, Bristol, 

Lists with six mistakes were ?,ent in hy fifteen competitors, and these win a Piize of £1 each. Tm»ir names and addresses are : 
Mrv FitANK Obngp, 14 St. PauTs Road, Bradford, Yorkshire" Caft* F, Bnvu Rgtchen, No. i Port Construction Co., R,E-, 
A. P.OSh 87, British Forces in France ; Ptb, B, G. Bkunson, 20724, E Co,. Room 18. K,M. Barrack*, Forton, Gosnon \ 
L Dowlas T. Pausok^ Grasmere, East Hoftlhly, Srasse* ; Miss Dorothy foHUAi*, Qakdenr, Kendal. Westmorland ; Mjis. 
H. G, Williams, a*. Alma Street* Eccles Manchester ; Miss E* Tav-lo*, aa, Warrington Crescent, Maida Hill. London, W.9. ; 
Miss Dorothy Bhook, Rosefidd, Birkhy Hall Road, H uddei afield ; H. W. Kmphton, 3, Cumby Terrace, Pembroke Dock. 
S Wales; Mr* Sk a w t 27, Alma Riwc*. Clifton, Bristol ; Haroi.i> Bikkwdod, ^ h -'.ui.^i Sutet. Hull : Korfrt E. Bunting, 
Western House, SwafThnm, Norfolk ; Mtss Mabjokik Tai bc*t, i. Nelfcfbjp^p^^iip.tjesirJ, totnfelfy~fcM ; Mrs. j. C* Mackii, 
* 4i Dry dough lane, Salterhebble, Halifax Vorks ; Wji.lie 0* McBjeWlH', ftaTf^kndld^foJ^jIWeil^olyUwn, Surrey, 


The , 

Sauce l 


ERPETUALLY within the heart 
of man two mighty antagonists 
do battle together. I refer to 
the Spiritual and the Material. 
We writers are here to record 
the incidents of this war. Like 
other experts, we emphasize 
the victories of the side which 
we represent. If we are worthy craftsmen we 
acclaim the successes of the Spiritual ; this is 
popular, and brings us much money. If we are 
decadent scoundrels, we gloat upon every advan- 
tage which the Material obtains over its adver- 
sary. The great, sound -hearted public, in 
consequence, hates us, and we live in squalor 
and penury (as is most just), the prey of alco- 
holism, drugs, and fleas. This is well known, 
and it Is most encouraging to all good people. 

Since I desire to be very rich, I have long* 
identified myself as completely as possible with 
those forces which are sworn to bring about the 
ruin of the Material principle. My pen is wholly 
dedicated to this object, and whenever it moves 
upon paper you may be sure that the denouement 
will be a happy and, consequently, a moral one. 
It is perfectly unnecessary for you to look at the 
end before you begin at the beginning. You are 
quite » safe. All will be well. Virtue shall 

triumph. If it didn't, do you suppose I would 
be drawing attention to the circumstance ? 

Now, then, 

Arbuthnot Wriothesley loved good food. He 
loved it, I say. And by good fo<jd I don't mean 
roast beef, and apple tart p and Cheshire cheese, 
and things of that kind, I mean poukt au grain 
Bernhardt, homard Caruso, tournedos Pavlova and 
/raises Harry Lauder, and things of that kind. 
Arbuthnot was* in a word, a gourmet. Brill at 
Savarin's " Psychologic du Gout " was his bed- 
book. I need say no more. 

Fortunately, he had a considerable income. 
This circumstance enabled him to frequent all 
the best restaurant^ which he did. MaUres 
dlttftet and head waiters dropped everything and 
came running between the tables to meet 
Arbuthnot at the door. He never had to reserve 
a table anywhere. For him there was never 
any of that degrading business with the waiter 
and the bill. He paid monthly, by cheque, like 
a gentleman* 

Cupid, that tiresome child, marked this 
Arbuthnot, so happy and so greedy , shot an 
arrow into Mm, and went his way sniggering. 
Three weeks later Arbuthnot proposed and was 
accepted. His business was done. 

The lady's name was Dulcie, Like Arbuthnot, 





. mum "ttdtaiGAN 




she was comfortably off ; rather more so p indeed, 
than Arbuthnot, It was therefore what is called 
art ideal match, even though Dulcie 's family was 
not an old one. 

Better off still was Dulcie J s Uncle William. 
He was horribly well off, A self-made roan, a 
citizen of Manchester or Leeds, or somewhere, an 
honest* kindly vulgarian, eighteen stone, four 
chins, a laugh like an anti-aircraft gun — that 
was Uncle William. He had hundreds of thou- 
sands of pounds. Dulcie adored him and made 
no secret of it, Why should she ? He was her 

Angels on Horseback were laid In front of 
Arbuthnot and his guests. When Arbuthnot 
had explained them to Uncle William, Uncle 
William asked : " Wheer's t J sauce ? M 

Arbuthnot was interested. 

M The sauce ? ,J he repeated. " I never heard 
of any particular sauce being served with Angels 
on Horseback, Uncle William. What kind of. a 
sauce do you mean ? " 

" Worcester," said Uncle William. 

Arbuthnot's stomach moved under his waist- 
coat. He went very pale and beckoned to the 


uncle, wasn't he ? And some day he would— 
must — ^ie. Arbuthnot, who knew not Uncle 
William, vowed that he, too, would adore the 
old man, and that the old man should adore him. 
He swore it. 

Uncle William wrote to Dulcie to say how 
pleased he was that she had got a young man, 
and informed her that he would be in London 
shortly, on such a day, for a week, and hoped to 
meet the lad. Arbuthnot wrote accordingly to 
Uncle William, and invited him to lunch at the 
Caf€ Ecstatic, on such another day, with Dulcie 
and himself* Uncle William accepted this 

Arbuthnot, having vowed to win the love of 
Uncle William, devoted a great deal of time 
(which he could very well afford) to the prepara- 
tion of his menu. The items will presently be 
disclosed. Just now it is enough if I say that, 
when his task was done, Arbuthnot had tears in 
his eyes as he read them over* 

They were all punctual at their appointment 
at the Cafe Ecstatic This is the chickest restau- 
rant in Europe. Everybody knows that. 

They took their places at table after Dulcie 
had introduced Arbuthnot to the adorable 
uncle. Uncle William wore clothes of orange 
Harris tweed and a scarlet necktie* Every 
person in the room except himself was aware of 
it. It did not even escape Arbuthnot's notice. 
But nothing could be done now. Nut lung. 

waiter* " Worcester sauce/* he whispered, The 
waiter did not understand. He simply did not 
understand. He stood, looking foolish, and did 
nothing* It was impossible for him to connect 
the two ideas of Angels on Horseback and Wor- 
cester sauce, 

4i Nah, then, my lad," said Uncle William, 
"look slippy. Didst never hear of Worcester 
sauce ? *' 

Arbuthnot had beckoned to the head waiter* 
" This gentleman," he said, when the functionary 
arrived, M wants some Worcester sauce/' 

Nothing could astonish the head waiter. That 
was why he %vas the head waiter* He spoke with 
acerbity to his underling in the language of 
waiters, and the underling vanished as if he had 
been blown out. A moment later he reappeared, 
accompanied by the condiment. In the kitchens 
of restaurants like the Cafe Ecstatic, they use 
Worcester sauce sometimes in the preparation 
of devilled horse-radish and other piquant 
savouries of the kind. 

Uncle William poured Worcester sauce all 
over his Angels on Horseback. Not until they 
were drowned did he desist. Then he ate them- 
He pronounced them to be champion. Arbuthnot 
achieved a smile on the wrong side of his mouth 
and said that that was all right* 

A Sole Mar<r>terv was displayed at Arbuthnot'o 
elbow, was approved, and was carried to the 
seni-JAIiVHfotr'r iJLF^HJfatUl. Uncle William 



grasped the bottle of Worcester sauce and in- 
verted it over his plate. His portion of Sole 
Marguiry disappeared. He salvaged it F ate it, 
and pronounced it to be champion , especially the 
mussels. While this was going on Arbuthnot 
chattered like a madman about nothing whatever 
and held on to the edge of the table with both 
hands. It was impossible for him even to pre- 
tend to eat. Dulcie ate her sole quite happily. 
She would have been quite as happy if it had been 
bake, She would have been much happier if it 
had been cold tinned tongue. If it had been a 
Hath bun with plenty of sugar on it she would 
have been absolutely happy. 

The next course was a chaleaubriand with a 
Bearnaise sauce. 

Bearnaise sauce is the spicialiU des spidaliUs 
of the Cafe Ecstatic, Its secret i? the possession 
of one man. He makes nothing else, and they 
pay him a thousand pounds a year- His sauce 
is famous in two hemispheres. If the gods of 
Greece had known the recipe they would never 
have put up with common ambrosia, 

" What," inquired Uncle William, 4M is this 
stuff ? iJ He pointed with his knife to the 
Beamaise sauce on his plate* Arbuthnot told 
him what it was* 

Uncie William scraped it all carefully to one 
tide of his plate. " When A eat good meat/' he 
said, -l A like to ta-aste it." He seized the 
dreadful bottle, and his piece of the chateau- 
briattd was drenched. He devoured the thing in 
three quick bites, while Arbuthnot prayed silently 
for strength to sustain this trial. 

Then said Uncle William: "That's champion I" 

Then he collected all the Bearnaise sauce into 

Arbuthnot beckoned the waiter to his side. 
" Bring me/ h he said, softly, * 4 a double cognac. 
Quick I * J and he gripped the leg of the table with 
both knees as well as its edge with both hands, 
for the room was turning about him. 

Then came rice -birds en chemise. Also the 
double cognac was handed to Arbuthnot* He 
drained the glass and, thus supported, watched 
Uncle William as he converted his rice-bird into 
Worcester sauce and bones. By this time 
Arbuthnot was incapable of being civil to Uncle 
William, but Dulcie prattled on busily. She 
was quite unaware that appalling events were 
taking place. She didn't give a hang for her 
rice -bird. If she thought about it at all, it was 
as a tedious postponement of the sweet. 

The sweet appeared. It consisted of muscatel 
grapes, skinned and stoned, and embedded in 
tangerine ice-cream. It was called Raisins 
Ecstatic. Dulcie yelped for more. Uncle 
William would have none of it, and asked if he 
could have a Welsh rabbit, Arbuthnot had been 
so terrified of what Uncle William might do with 
the raisins Ecstatic that he was actually grateful 
to the old man, and gave the order in a firmer 
voice than he had been able to use for a quarter 
of an hour. 

The man who makes Welsh rabbits for the 
CafG Ecstatic only earns five hundred a year, 
but nevertheless he is a very great artist. One 
of his triumphs was placed in front of Uncle 
William, who immediately attempted to cover it 
with Worcester sauce* He failed, because the 
bottle was exhausted. Did that deter him ? 
Not it. He called for another bottle. 

At this* something, as they say, snapped in 


a little heap. In this, with the point of his knife, 
he made a little hole. Into this hole he poured 
Worcester sauce until all the Bearnaise sauce 
was covered with the overflow. Then with the 
point of his knife he kneaded and manipulated 
Bearnaise and Worcester until the twain w T ere in- 
extricably mingled. Then with the point of his 
knife — -I cannot bear to write it. You guess what he 
did with the point of his knife. You guess truly. 
Anyhow, he said it was champion. 

Arbuthnot's brain. He had, simply, borne too 
much. The breaking- point had been reached. 
The last straw had been added to his load of 
misery* The gallant struggle which he had con- 
ducted went, in a moment, all for nothing- 
There, with the goal at his finger-tips, he aban- 
doned the race. CJinal from 

it is cause for the loudest jubilation. Let ha 



jubilate. In Arbuthnot's soul the Spiritual 
(when all seemed lost) suddenly asserted itself 
over the Material, and was the Master. 

The last vestige of thought about the hundreds 
of thousands of pounds which Uncle William 
possessed departed from the mind of Arbuthnot. 
He only knew that he could not endure to see 

Bearnaise sauce and rice-birds, I cannot stand it. 
For the sake of hospitality, for the sake of your 
grey hairs, for the sake of my love for Dulcie. 
I have hitherto looked on and said nothing. I 
have done wrong. I repent. I refuse any longei 
to connive at your exorbitant villainies. Tha> 
innocent Welsh rabbit shall at least be saved 


Uncle William open another bottle of Worcester 
sauce upon that Welsh rabbit. Enough sacrilege 
had been committed. Enough. The time had 
come when the sanctity of good food must be 
proclaimed, no matter what the cost. 

Uncle William was inordinately rich. No 
matter. He was an old man and an ignorant. 
No matter. He was an invited guest. No 
matter. He was a warm-hearted, generous old 
thing. No matter. 

Where good food was concerned he was the 
Devil, and as the Devil Arbuthnot could, at last, 
alone regard him. 

He must be dealt with. He must. There 
was no help for it. 

" Uncle William," he cried, with sudden 
violence, " you shall not have any more Worces- 
ter .sauce. I forbid it. I loathe you, Uncle 
William. You are a wicked old man, Uncle 
William. Yon murder good food, Uncle William. 
I don't mind your poisoning yourself, but when 
it comes to poisoning soles, and fillet steak, and 

Waiter, you are not to bring this horrible old 
man any more Worcester sauce." 

He ceased, leaned back in his chair, and, with 
a shaking hand, lit a cigarette. 

Uncle William then spoke. The scene was a 
hideous one. At least two women fainted, and 
several chairs were broken under the weight of 
regular male clients of the restaurant, who had 
climbed upon them in order to see as much as 
possible. It was a terrible time for everybody, 
but at last it was over. Uncle William had 
stormed out of the room and back to Yorkshire, 
or wherever he came from. It was over. It was 
over. Right had triumphed. 

Dulcie looked up from her third helping of 
raisins Ecstatic. " Where's Uncle William ? " 
she asked. 

Arbuthnot told her. 

But it made no difference. She stuck to him. 
She liked him better than her Uncle William, 
and she and Arbuthnot had five thousand a year 
between them. 

by LiOOglC 

Driginal from 



9fo Stonroft^e JOY-BELlSi Comedy Scene 


<- -.EDGAR 


This is the story of the amusing little comedy in " Joy- Bells ! " at the London 

Hippodrome, with photographs of the scene as played by George Robey ind 

Shirley Kellogg. Ir is the first time that George Robey has appeared in a part 

in everyday costume and wtihoui make-up 

J] HE war had soured Hector Smith. 
It had drawn a line between 
comparative youth and compara- 
tive middle -age. It had burst 
inconveniently, as wars have 
a habit of bursting, upon more 
than one half-matured scheme 
of his, and had scattered them. 
to bits and left him the poorer. To be exact* 
it had left Mary the poorer, because it was Mary's 
money that went, of which fact it had become 
a habit of hers to remind him. 

But more souring, bits of boys, the merest 
urchins, to be patronized or ignored iri the old 
days, had obtntded themselves upon his and the 
public's attentions* The balance of life was 
over-set- The inconsiderable factors {in which 
category he included these boys who now strutted 
*onsciou_sly be -rib boned through his world) 
had grown to such importance that they over- 
shadowed the real big things of life, such as 
his handicap at golf, his bridge hands, the 
remarkable poverty of intelligence on the part 
of his partners, and the like. 

There was a time when Arthur, for example, 
wuuid have been carried to the seventh heaven 
ty* timely half-sovereign, and would have fun 
his long legs off in his haste to reach the con- 
fectioners before the cream buns were sold* 
Now Arthur was a straight -limbed youth with 
wings*" and a record of good service in France. 
And Arthur and Mary— — > 
VoL ItUL-i& 

Pshaw ! It was absurd I Why, he remembered 
this ditf y little kid when he was so high I 
Yet, it was a fact that Mary spent most of her 
time with Arthur, raved about his dancing, 
his beautiful manners ; his perfect sympathy. 
fthaw I 

Hector Smith cursed the war that forced him 
to listen to gruesome stories in which he waj 
not interested. 

He opened the drawing-room door and stalked 
in, then stopped with a tittle grimace. The 
inevitable Arthur was there, and the inevitable 
Arthur with an embarrassed giggle made his 
escape with a mumbled reference to the weather. 

As for Mary, she looked too good to be true. 

" Hasn't that bird got a perch of his own ? " 
snarled Hector. 

" How can you speak of a man who has been 
wounded ? " began his indignant partner. 

Mr. Smith laughed contemptuously. 

M Wounded 1 The first time He tried to fly 
he crashed, and the second time he tried to fly 
he crashed, and the third time he tried to fly 
he crashed ! " 

She tossed her head. 

" I'd like to see you do it I " 

Mr. Smith shrugged. 

"Oh, I know it's a mistake to talk dis- 
respectfully of your hero," he sneered. 

He was not feri/nr; at hi; brightest. 

2 5° 


" I mean, I'm fed up, that's what I mean/ 1 
he snapped, and she flamed round on him. 

" And so am II" she cried. " You're 
vulgar and stupid and tyrannical- The life 
I've li% r ed with you is abominable. When I 
married you I had money— — ■" 

He bowed, 

" That's right/* he said, encouragingly, " throw 
that in my face 1 Didn't 1 invest it for you ? " 

It was an unfortunate question, 

" Yes, you did/' she said, bitterly. " You 
put it into a luminous sign business. Luminous 
signs 1 And a month after war was declared, 
and the only thing you could get out of 
shewing a luminous sign was six months' 
imprisonment 1 " 

" How did I know there was going to be a 
war ? M asked the exasperated man. 

" You might have guessed it," she replied, 

in Could I guess that London was to be plunged 
in darkness ? I did my best- I should have 
made a million out of that fuse factory I started 
this year- ■" 

" Yes, if it hadn't been ior the armistice/' 
she scoffed. 

" How did I know there was going to be 


he roared. 

She flounced past him on her way to the door, 
" Oh, you ne%'er know anything ! " 
" There's one thing I know/' he shouted 
after her. 

,£ What's that ? M 

** One of these fine days Til run away to 
America I ** 

Her scornful laugh came back through the 
slammed door. 

He threw himself upon the settee* 

The money was gone and the wife remained. 
That was his luck* If it had been the other 
way about ! If only it had been the other way 
about I If he could only live the years over 
again I If he could only be five yean* younger 
and knew what he knew I 

He sat staring at the newspaper in his hand. 
There was a critique of a new play, a fairy play. 
Bah I Fairies were nonsense I 

He laid the newspaper down on his knees. 
But suppose there were such things as fairies, 
and suppose they moved about this prosaic, 
industrialized world, as in the old days they 
moved through the woodland glebes ; suppose by 
a wave of a magic wand a man could be trans- 
planted back r back, back ; and suppose that 
it were possible that the clock should be put 
back, and one had consciousness of all the things 
that were going to happen, the horses that were 
going to win races, the stocks which were going 
to rise, all the great events which must occur I 

He heaved a deep sigh and looked up. He 
half-rose from the couch, for there before him, 
a bright and radiant figure in the dusky room, 
stood a brilliant presence. He knew it was a 
fairy because it was dnssrcl as fairies should 
be dressed, and because she was bathed in a 
flood of silvery light which seemed to come 


> 1EA */„JJiM^OM£HI&.N 

! ' SHE CRIED." 

IF ? 


from nowhere in particular. The little hands 
grasped a wand which twinkled and ■glittered 
with light. 

Recovering from his initial astonishment 
he looked at her apprisingly He felt it would 
be undignified and ill-bred to regard her as a 

" Hector Smith." said a sweet, low voice, 
,+ f am your fairy godmother ! " 

"Gh, yes," said Hector Smith, politely. 

" You have expressed a wish to be five years 

ordeal. He was a little scared of Mary in her 
tantrums, and more scared that his apprehension 
should be known to her- But the girl who came 
across the room to meet him had no frown, no 
reproaches. She was one beaming smile, and 

: ufr M 

* m ' HOW DID 


your-ger. Be happy, for to-morrow you wilt 
awake in 1 91 4." 

" Eh ? " said Hector, sitting up. " I say, 
do you really mean that ? " 

She inclined her head. 

"Wait a moment," said Hector, eagerly* 
" I must be the only one who knows it. D'ye 
understand ? Because if everybody else knows 
it I shall be in the cart again. " 

She raised her wand and waved it slowly 
above his head, 

11 I must be the only one who knows that 
there's going to be a war and all that sort of 
ttkirig/ J said Hector, drowsily* A sense of 
languor was rapidly overcoming him, fl I 
don't want . . ." 

His head fell on his chest, 

He did not know how long he had .slept when 
he awoke with a jerk. He had a confused dream 
in which figured fairies and brilliant wands , 
and low, sweet voices mingled, and then he re- 
membered that he had to see Tom kins who was 
liquidating his ill-fated fuse factory, He went 
to the study and 'phoned Torn kins, but, amaz- 
ingly enoufeh, Tom kins was not on the 'phone. 
He asked Exchange to connect him with Smith's 
Patent Fuse Factory, but Exchange was ignorant 
that such a place had ever existed. 

"The telephone service/* said Hector Smith, 
as be hung up the receiver, M is becoming more 
and more abominable." 

He decided to write to the newspapers on the 
subject. He paused outside the drawing-room 
door, for he heard his wife moving about inside, 
and it was necessary to brace himself up for the 

she ran towards him and laid her hands upon 
his shoulders. 

" Dearie I " she kissed him, ecstatically; 
then noting the gloom in his face, " darling, 
whatever is the matter ? " 

" Matter ? " he answered, suspiciously. 
" What's that you did ? What's the matter 
with you ? IP 

She looked at him in wonder. 

" Nothing is the matter with me. I just 
kissed you, that's all,* 1 

He heaved a sigh. How did she know he 
had received his directors* cheque that day ? 

" How much do you want r " he asked, with 

" Naughty boy, why do you say that ? M 
she pouted. " Don't you love your diddlclums 
any more ? fl 

He stared at her, 

" Look here. What's up ? " he asked, des- 
perately* "I'll buy it 1 What's wrong with 
you ? " 

" Wrong ? " 

She was frankly astonished, 

" Everything has gone wrong to-day," he- 
growled. " I went to call up that fellow about 
the fuses — — ** 

She frowned. 

11 Fuses ? What are fuses i M 

His suspicions returned. 

" Don't pull my (eg," he said, coldly. ,f I'm 
not in a mood for it Try it on the other fellow." 

" What otherOlfcai*W&™n-| 

He was here just now* r heard h 

is voice. 



A smile oi understanding dawned on her face. 

" Who, little Arthur ? " 

,- Yes, little Arthur/' he snarled, " the little 
hero ! " 

M Don't be silly, Hector/' she laughed. 
M Arthur a hero I " 

Has rising wrath moderated. Evidently what 
he had said to her had done some 
good. Still suspicious, and with 
a horrid sense oi unreality, he 
slipped his arm about her waist 
and led her to the couch* It was 
all unreal and unexpected, he 
thought, as her golden head rested 
on his shoulder* 

"It's a long time since we 

Again the look of blank astonkhment on her 

'• But why not ? " 

4t He's such a nice little gentleman, sir/' 
pleaded Jane. 4i He sat on my knee and told 
me such funny stories/' 

Hector glared from the maid to his wife. 

"There you are!" 
he said^ triumph- 
antly, "That's the 
sort of fellow he 
is I Sits on her 
knee and tells her 
funny stories I N 


did this," lie said. " It reminds me of the raid 

She straightened herself up. 

44 The what nights ? " 

" The raid nights/ 1 

She laughed* Hector in the full ardour oi 
that period which was neither youth nor n iddle- 
age, had been a tempestuous J over. 

" Dear* you use such queer expressions J " 
4 Do you remember the syren ? " he asked, 
after a pause, and her head nodded vigorously. 

11 Yes, the cat — but I got yot away from 

M And how we used to go down into the cellar ?" 
he mused. It seemed a thousand years ago. 

She straightened up. It was she who was 

a * We never did/' she protested, " Really, 
Hector I I hope you're not thinking of some- 
body else ? " 

Before he could answer Jane came in t and 
Jane, curiously enough, looked much younger. 

" Will there be three to dinner, madam ? " 
asked the maid, 

Mary nodded. 

" Who is the third ? 

" Oh, no one/' said 
asked Arthur to stay." 

He sprang to his feet- 

" Arthur ! Confound the fellow, hasn't he 
gone ? I won't have him. Do you under- 
stand, Mary, I — won't— have—him I " 

demanded Mr. Smith* 
Ms wife, airily, " I 

To his amazement she laughed, 

" It's not worth while getting angry — he 
can dine in the kitchen/ ' 

" In the kitchen I " 

" Of course, he doesn't care," Mary went on, 
calmly, " so long as he goes to the White City/' 

"With whom? M 

"Well I'll take him/' said Mary indiffer- 
ently, " I rather like the Roiy-Poly and the 
Wiggle- Wag." 

With a mighty T effort Mr. Smith controlled 

11 You can't go to the White City, It's been 
requisitioned by the Government four years 
ago/' he said. " The White City is closed, 
I tell you* It's where the C3 men get their 
A 1 gratuity — everybody knows that/' 

There was a strained silence, during which 
Jane tip-toed from the room* 

Hector saw something in his wife's eyes that 
looked like fear, and failed to diagnose its cause. 

"I'm sorry I lost my temper/' he said, peni- 
tently ; ** the fact is I'm jealous." 

The fear was replaced by a gleam of interest. 

" Jealous ? Of whom ? " 

He made a little gesture to cover 1.1s dis- 

"Of you — -and Arthur." 

" But .M^'PfiaHWm 5he 8»i»d; "«* his 

^WJ^ icily, - I had 

been thrown out fjf the Empire twice/' 


2 53 

He did not explain the degree of worldliness 
which this experience implied, but he left her 
to gather that it represented a particularly 
lurid form of precocity. 

" I don't understand you to-night/' she 
said, shaking her head, 

" I don't understand myself/' said Mr. Smith, 
rising. " I think I'll run down to the club, 
I promised to meet an ace.'* 

" An ace ? I thought you*d given up cards/' 

" You don't understand me — tins fellow 
brought down thirty," 

M Thirty what ? " 

" Boche." 

** It isn't ' bosh ' I ,J she exploded. " How 
did he bring them dovm ? *' 

Hector groaned. 

"He got on their tails and crashed them," 
he explained, patiently. 

She was shocked, 

44 Poor things t I suppose they broke quite 
easily ? '* she asked. 

He looked at her. 

-i I don't know what you are talking about/' 
he said, irritably. ** I am speaking about a 
fellow who has been ' mentioned * six times." 

She shook her head. 

" This is the first time you have men- 
tioned him to me/' she said ; " what has he 
done ? w 

" No, the tank went over the top and a niinnie 
dropped in front of him." 

She was interested again. 

" Poor girl/* she said, sympathetically, " and 
did he help her up ? " 

fi No ; you see> a flying pig burst just behind 

44 But what did he do with Minnie ? " she 

She could not grapple with pigs that fiew, but 
Minnie was someone tangible. t 

11 Oh, she got him in the leg," he stated, 

She was grave now. 

" I see, she wasn't a lady ? " 

" Of course she wasn't a lady/' he wailed. 
" I have told yon it wasn't a lady ! It wa* 
a miaaewerfer." 

She did not want to hear about Miss Werfer 
or even of a low person to whom he made glib 
reference — -a Miss Emma Gee. This friend of 
her husband's seemed to have low tastes. He 
crashed people* he got on their tails, 

" And Big Bertha— — *" Hector was saying 
when she stopped him. 

" I don't think I want to meet your friend/' 
she said, and made for the door. 

He didn't understand her. Usually she was 
as full of the jargon of the war as the most 
ardent subaltern. Now she professed ignorance 


"Done ! Why. Ut the early days before and demanded an elucidation of the most com- 

hc started flipping, he took a pill-box all by him- monplace phrase. 

wMl 9 * > He was pondering on this fact when the maid 

Her mouth opened, came into the room, She stood nervously 

** A whole box \ " she gasped. waiting, and Hector guessed her errand, 

M You see/* he explained. " he was in a tank, M Well ? '* be growled. 

and when they went over the top—" " I — -I thought I would ask yon, sir," she 

"Over the top of the tank?" she asked, faItered.tNI^\IR^Y^RiWICcHWftrthe mistress if 

hazily. - -if she would give me a little rise/' 



"A rise again I " he groaned. This was the 
third or was it the fourth time . . . ? 

" But. sir ? H 

" Now listen to me/ h he said, severely, " I 
know that living is expensive, and coals are 
dear, and I am willing to give you another rise. 
But this must be the very last time. You can 
have five pounds a month, but not a p^miy 
more. 1 ' 

She did not swoon. She was too well-bred 
a servant, 

" Five pounds a month I Oh, thank you, 
master, thank you ! Oh, you are most good " 
—she grew incoherent, 

Hector raised his eyebrows. He thought she 
was unusually grateful, His wife returned at 
that moment to hear his news, 

" By the way, dear, I've just raised Jane's 

Usually she objected to his interfering in her 
domestic affairs, but now she was most amiable. 

" I promised her I would — -she seems a nice £iri." 

" Yes.*' said Hector. " I'm giving her five 
pounds a month." 

His wife grasped a chair for support, 

-l Are you mad ? " She beckoned Jane, 
for her earlier suspicions were now certainties. 

** Fetch a doctor/' she said, under her breath. 
" The master isn't well* I only pay her eighteen 
pounds a year." 

She tried to say this in a light conversational 
tone, but her voice shook. 

" You only — - — ■ ? " Something was veiy 
wrong, and he called the maid to him. " Ask 
Dr. Sawyer to step round. Mrs. Smith isn't 
quite herself." he said, 

" Get Dr, Thomas/' demanded 
Mary, sharply. 

Thomar 1 Thomas was in Mesopo- 
tamia 1 It was clear now, The worry 
of the past years had turned her brain, 
It was a flattering explanation for the 
preference she had lately shown to 
Arthur, They watched one another 
apprehensively after the girl had gone, 
then :— 

" Feel better, ducky ? " he disked, 

" Has that nasty wuzzy feeling gone, 
lovey ? " her voice was a nervous 

Dr. Thomas had the flat opposite, 
and Dr. Thomas was coming out of 
his flat when the frightened maid had 
literally flung herself upon him. 

"They're both mad," she babbled, and the 
startled doctor followed her to where two people, 
each standing at the extreme end of a long draw- 
ing-room, were watching one another in silence. 
Hector saw him and uttered an exclamation 
of astonishment. 

' f By Jove, I thought you were in Bagdad ? " 
The doctor laid his soothing hand on the 
other's shoulder. 

" Of course— Bagdad I Ah. that's the place 
— we'll soon put you right, old man.'* 

Ignoring the implication that he wasn't 
right, Mr* Smith whispered something in the 
other's ear, 

" Of course she is." replied Thomas, indul- 
gently, and caught Mary's eye and Mary's 
significant signal. 

It was at that moment that Arthur came in 
— Arthur in his Eton suit, with his cherubic 
face stained with jam. Hector looked at him 
and his jaw dropped. 

M What the devil have you dressed like this 
for ? " he demanded. 

" Because I'm going to school* Mr, Smith/' 

"■To school ? How old are you ? If 

" Fourteen — nearly." 

" Fourteen ! " repeated Hector, hollowly. 

" Is it possible ? " 

On Mary's desk was a calendar and to this 
he walked. 

" Nineteen fourteen 1 Mary, I understand 
all. I will explain. You're not mad — it was 
the fairy — who put back the clock — my wish 
was granted ! " 

The doctor looked at Mary and Mary looked 
at the doctor, 

"I'm going to prophesy," 
Hector went on, excitedly, 
1 We are going to war ! 
The Kaiser will abdicate ! 
The British Army will be 
•avgst millions strong! We 
shall win the war, thanks 
to Beatty. Haig, and 
Foch 1 M 

He saw the round face oi 
Arthur and— smack I Ar- 
thur sprawled on the floor 

' Why did you do 
that ? " asked the terrified 

"He's going to cause me 
a lot of trouble." said 
Hector, prophetically. 


v ciqinal from 





ITH never a 


warning, a 

hundred tons 

of earth de- 
tached itself 

from Hovel- 

ler's Cliff and 
sank like a plummet to the 
beach below. 

With it went Hidbert 
Oldershaw — for about two 
feet of the downward way, Vhen he roused 
himself, wheeled round, and flung up his hands 
in a frantic clutch at the torn turf edge which 
was the only stable thing within his range of 
vision at that agitating moment. His right 
hand caught and held ; the left hand missed its 
hold but scraped the turf and tore a nail to the 

Heart in mouth, he clutched again, successful I y 
this time, and so hung with both arms extended. 
Then, like a wise man, knowing how soon the 
arms will tire in this position, he made a vigorous 
effort to hoist himself while strength was fresh, 
Also, instant action was a refuge from panic, 
which he feared. 

But when he took purchase for the hoist, he 
felt the turf give under pressure of Ms fingers 
and start to rend. He eased his clutch at once 
and steadied his tegs, and his nerves. Cautiously, 
lest his body should sway and imperil his hold, 
he felt forward with his foot. 

Nothing there. He tried again with the other 
foot — still nothing. Then he realized that the 
cliff was scooped away, that his legs were dangling 
without support or any chance of support over 
ninety feet of space, and that his hands were 
clinging to a precarious shelf of turf which might 
give way at any minute. 

For the third time he fought back imminent 
panic. He forced himself to be cool, suppressing 
imagination and fixing his mind on the manage- 
ment of his fingers, which must distribute their 
pressure nicely, and on the control of his body, 
which must be absolutely stilh / 

The strain was terrible ; it was breaking his 
fingers, tearing the muscles of his arms and 





dragging his arma from their 
sockets. His strength was 
ebbing with the pain of it. 
He clenched his teeth ; he 
would not give in, he would 
not, would not ! The sa%'age 
exertion of his will congested 
his brain. His head began 
to swim ; he closed his eyes. 
His idea of time became 
confused ; he found him- 
self forgetting where he 
was. . , . 
He emerged from momentary oblivion and 
knew that cool hands had settled on his wrists, 
had felt for a hold, then closed firmly* The 
relief was delicious. When he opened his eyes 
and looked up at the hands which had saved 
him from his agony, he saw that the fingers 
were slender and the skin was delicate — -a 
woman's hands. 

The hold on hLs wrists, little powerful though 
it was, gave him an extraordinary sense of 
support, More curiously, it gave him back his 
strength and h most important of all, confidence 
to use it. It meant everything to him- 

No longer afraid of the crumbling cornice, 
he began to work his fingers forward, the other 
pair of hands aiding him understanding^. 
Presently his palms rested on firm ground. 
When he paused, soft wrists and smooth, warm 
arms closed down upon his hands, clamping 
them to the turf. And when he braced himself 
and strove with all his might to win the ledge* 
the hands on his wrists relaxed to give them 

Her sense of touch was very delicate, but her 
strength was not sufficient for his weight. His 
elbows nearly reached the ledge, but not quite* 
and there for ghastly moments he hung, slipping, 
slipping back, and she powerless to stay him + 
Again he was at grips with death, again he 
fought with all the will that was in him — head 
bent forward till his clenched teeth grazed the 
turf ; nails f utile! y clawing ; beads of sweat 
Ufjou his brow ; and his whole body quivering 
with the effort to squiseac from itself another 
ounce qf| rfwotbci tv r* r 4 ai r u i^ J 


arable, and he 


' 2& 


was as good as gone, when suddenly the hand 
which held his better wrist let go and seized 
his hair. 

There was no mercy in that grasp, but it saved 
him. The torture was excruciating. Like a 
far-spent steed responding to the spur, he 
gathered the last of his strength, writhed up 
to meet and ease the torrnent in his scalp, and 
worked his elbows over. A leg followed care- 
fully ; the rest was simple. When he was safe 
the hands let go. 

With eyes dull from utter exhaustion he saw 
her lying flat on her face, her brow against the 
turf and her toes still hooked over a big white 
stone, which marks the coastguaVd's nightly 

His brain was numb ; he had just sense enough 
to crawl a couple of yards from the edge of death 
before he collapsed, rolled over on his back, and 
lay still with arms outspread and feeble breath. 
The solid earth was heaven — now welcome 
nothingness. . . . 

A voice was calling him ; he opened his eyes 
and saw her stooping over him. Her method 
of dealing with the situation was at least original, 
for she dropped on her knees beside him, looked 
into his face with frightened eyes, and earnestly 
demanded : — 

44 Was your grandmother a bobtailed sheep- 
dog ? " 

Hulbert sat up. Surprise corrected his linger- 
ing inclination to swoon. He stared back into 
her clear brown eyes. She transferred her gaze 
to his hair. 

" Not that I know of," he began, dazily, then 
put his hand to his smarting head and asked : 
" Do you think it is too long ? " 

" Not in the circumstances," said she, smiling 
fain^ ly. " There ! You're feeling better already, 
I knew you would. Sorry I had to be vulgar." 

" Not at all," he said. " Only you made me 
think of my old sergeant-major." 

" Sorrier still," she said. " I made you sit 
up, though, didn't I ? " 

Her face was frank and free from guile ; her 
complexion a sunny blend of pink and tan. 
She wore no hat, and a dark cloud of hair, still 
damp from the sea, enveloped her shoulders. 

She was nervous, but he was not aware of it 
because he was nervous, too. Yet his eyes 
wou'd not leave her face. 

" You saved me " he began, awkwardly. 

" From a watery grave ? Nothing of the 
kind. The tide is out. Come and look." 

" Well, you're plucky ! " he gasped. 

" Have to be, when young men go about the 
country hanging themselves on cliffs." 

He still hesitated. 

" Come along. * Hair of the dog,' you know," 
she said in a warm, encouraging way that he 
could not resist. 

Side by side they crawled to the edge, then 
lay down flat and peeped over. Far below they 
saw a great moraine of earth and stones jutting 
out across the beach, its foot already lapped with 
a ring of foam. Sixty feet below the jutting 
cornice of disrupted turf the slope of the cliff 
was strewn with rugged lumps of earth and slabs 

of turf, boulders, upturned stunted trees and 
scrubby bushes, all intermixed in extraordinary 
confusion — a little picture of elemental chaos. 
Above it, nothing was visible. 

Hulbert shut his eyes, shuddering at the fate 
which must have been his but for the girl at his 
side. But she laid a firm hand on his, and he, 
obedient to her ruling, looked agai \ steadfastly 
until he had mastered himself and could look 
without qualm. 

" A green woodpecker couldn't climb it," was 
her only comment. 

They crawled back together and stood up, she 
still motherly and solicitous, he protesting that 
he felt perfectly fit. His soul was like to burst 
with gratitude, but before he could utter a word 
of it, with a wave of the hand and a dancing 
smile she was gone. 

Those who are interested in coast erosion do 
not need to be reminded that Hoveller's GMT 
is a part of the coast where the process is especially 
active. The soft conglomerate formation offers 
no defence against the gigantic waves raised by 
the north-easterly gales, which lash the coast in 
winter time. When the gale chances to coincide 
with the southward sweep of a spring tide the 
results are invariably serious ; the base of the 
cliff is washed away, the face is undermined, and 
sooner or later a fall must ensue. 

Some assert that the land is slowly subsiding. 
Old salts still living in the neighbouring fishing 
hamlet of Dunestrand recall the time when 
Hoveller's Cliff extended a hundred yards 
beyond the Smuggler's Path. In the course of 
years, successive falls have brought the edge of 
the cliff nearer and nearer to the path ; and the 
fall which nearly cost Hulbert Oldershaw his 
life took the path with it and left a bare six feet 
of ground between the edge of the cliff and the 
gardens of Hoveller's Towers. 

Now, the new owner of the Towers, Sir 
Perceval Dacing, was a man of the shires who 
knew not Dunestrand. So he took upon himself, 
in the convenient name of public safety, to board 
up this narrow passage way and to erect a 
notice-board : — 


An awkward prohibition, because the Smug- 
gler's Path is the nearest way to the gully or 
cleft in the cliff called Hoveller's Gap, which is 
the only means of descent to this part of the 
beach. No doubt Sir Perceval's intention was 
that the grateful wayfarer should turn inland, 
make a diiour of a mile round his property, 
and strike the Gap a hundred yards farther on. 
The scheme did not appeal to the native mind. 

The first child of the sea who came by was 
Hezekiah Colby. Pausing only to make an 
appropriate exclamation, he forthwith removed 
with his powerful h&ads enough of the boarding 


2 57 

to permit of convenient passage, 
and hastened with the news to 
the taproom of the Lord Nelson 
at Dunestraiid * The conclave of 
jerseyed giants there assembled, 
at first thunderstruck, subse- 
quently became explosive, and 
ultimately derisive. 

Not for a long time had the 
sentiment of Dunestrand been 
so outraged. Next day the 
number of stalwart fishermen 
whose business took them to 



the fingers were slender 

and the skin delicate — a 

woman's hands." 

Hoveller's Gap was remarkable. 
The Smuggler's Path was fre- 
quented from dawn till night- 
fall, and long before that not 
a vestige of Sir Perceval's 
barrier remained in situ. In- 
deed, some of the handier 
fragments were even then use- 
fully employed in warming the 
suppers of the more youthful 
members of the community. 
Dunestrand retired to its early 
couch in the soothing con- 
sciousness of work well done. 

Two days passed in which 
numerous self-appointed scouts 
detected no trace of hostile 
activity, and the inference was 
accordingly drawn that the 
baronet had wisely decided to 
abandon his iniquitous project. 
This delusion was based upon 
complete ignorance of Sir Per^ 
ceval's character. 

A report was brought to the 
Lord Nelson on the evening of 
the third day which gave 
Dunestrand its first conception 
of the strength and resolution 
of its antagonist. Obviously 
the hours which Dunestrand 
had permitted itself to spend 
in mild enjoyment of an easy 
triumph had been occupied by 
the baronet in collecting the 
material for a second and far 
more serious attack upon the 
rights <>f the indigenes. 

In place of the flimsy fence, 

3iJ .J^reeyaTs minions had con- 

rJSHafflJ? ? 1 stockade of fir 

StfflhtfMKWti^lin .the earth, 

bound together with iron bands, 



and stayed with four wire ropes. This was 
an obstruction not to be torn down by any 
hands, and its height and the line of barbed wire 
along the top discouraged the climber. 

Against a flanking attack, the new proprietor, 
by lavish use of barbed wire, had converted his 
bank and hedge of tamarisk and gorse into a 
formidable strong-point which nobody with any 
respect for hands and clothes would lightly 
face. A new and larger notice-board was nailed 
to the stockade : — ■ 


By Order — 

Among the fisherfolk of Dunestrand, light- 
hearted derision gave place to anger. 

Now Huibert, after his adventure on the cliff, 
had taken steps to discover the identity of the 
girl who had saved him from destruction. 
Waking or sleeping, her brown eyes looked into 
his. Those tense moments lived with her on the 
brink of death seemed to bind his very soul to 
hers. Beyond the conjecture that she might 
be " some of the new people at the Towers," the 
hamlet could not assist him. 

This new sensation rudely interrupted his 
investigations. He was not himself a native of 
Dunestrand, but his affection for the place and 
the people had long since made him as one of 
themselves. Their quarrels were his, and he 
regarded the closing of the cliff path as a piece 
of barefaced robbery. 

Generations of the hardy folk who take their 
lives in their hands to wrest a living from the 
bitter sea had used it without hindrance. Free 
passage of their native cliffs was as much their 
birthright as the salt sea air they breathed. 
To see their hard lives made harder and, worse 
still, embittered at the caprice of a stranger, 
made his blood boil. Nor should it happen if he 
could prevent it. 

Huibert cheerfully undertook the leadership 
in the serious operations which followed, as 
cheerfully disregarding the legal bearing of the 
matter, if it had any. In point of fact, little 
leadership was needed, for every man knew just 
what had to be done and how it had to be done ; 
moreover, co-operation is second nature to the 
people of the sea. 

The arrangements were made with the neces- 
sary stealth at the Lord Nelson, and were quickly 
known to every man, woman, and child in Dune- 
strand. On the following Saturday afternoon a 
half -dozen stalwart men and hefty lads gathered 
outside the tavern for " a little stroll to 
Hoveller's Gap." 

Everyone carried an implement of some kind — 
pick, shovel, crowbar, axe. or saw ; one robust 
youth had an old boat's anchor with flukes 
carefully sharpened. Huibert took with him a 

pair of powerful wire-cutters which had don* 
good service in bloodier scraps than this promised 
to be. 

In high spirits but most unmiiitary order the 
conspirators straggled along the Smuggler's 
Path, beguiling the way by discourse, flamboyant 
or sober, according to the temperament of the 

" If I get a holt on that there Sir Perceval/' 
cried young Absalom Peake, " I swear I'll take 
him off in feyther's boo-ut, and Eb and me'il 
keelhaul him till he's nigh drownded." 

" Aye, that us wull," grinned brother Ebenezer 
mightily pleased with the sporting project. 

" That'll do, lads, that'll do," Hezekiah Colby 
interposed. " There bain't no call to speak 
spiteful o' the man, howsoever bad he be, and 
we doan't rightly know as it's hisself is most to 
blame. Belike it's they that's under him more'n 
hisself, if truth be known. It's got to come 
down, however." 

" Mark ye ! " put in the chastened Ebenezer, 
repeating the oft -heard philosophy of his elders, 
"if he take ground what bain't rightly his 'n, 
that'll not do the man no good, that it wun't, 
never I " 

Arrived at the scene of action, the men peeled 
off their jerseys and set to it roundly. First of 
all, Hezekiah bent his broad back, and Huibert, 
kneeling on it, snipped the barbed wire from the 
top of the stockade, then pulled himself up and 
dropped on the other side. Absalom and 
Ebenezer were quickly boosted over, and a pick 
and a shovel pitched after them. 

Then on both sides of the stockade at once, 
picking and shovelling alternately, the fishermen 
cleared the footings. Huibert sang out a 
warning and cut two of the wires at the ground 
level. The heavy timber barrier heeled over 
sideways. The other two wires were likewise 
cut, and then, all hands hauling, they dragged 
out the entire stockade, drew it back from the 
cliff, and dumped it on the grass. 

Absalom and Ebenezer expressed a keen desire 
to heave it over on to the beach, and indeed it 
would have been a heartening sight to see it go 
pitching down the cliff ; but soberer heads would 
not countenance the proposal. 

"That be property," said Hezekiah; "we'll 
not damage nawthun more'n we be forced to do. 
Let it be." 

" Us wayunt be spiteful an' all," agreed Sam 
Asterby, who was Lincolnshire-bred. 

They filled in the hole, trod it down, and made 
all shipshape. From start to finish the whole 
thing was well and expeditiously done without 
any kind of interruption. 

Now, however, just as they were pulling on 
their jerseys to go home, some men came hastily 
through a wicket-gate in the hedge and made 
towards the demolition party. One in the dress 
of a country gentleman was rightly presumed to 
be the baronet ; he was a big man, with short 
grey hair and a, vigorous face. Two of the others 
were JffiftP^BaW' r ve ^ vetee |PAhJ^ fourth was 
Tom Pearson, the constable. Everybody knew 




Tom, and Tom, inconveniently, knevr everybody. 
His presence here was ominous. 

Sir Perceval, marching a little ahead, brought 
his party along at a rapid pace. His carriage 
was purposeful, indeed aggressive, and as 
soon as he came within twenty yards of the 
fishermen, he called out in a sharp and angry 
voice : — 

" Who are you ? What are you -doing here ? " 
No answer. Hulbert stepped forward a pace 
or two, and the fishermen closed up behind and 
about him. With the touching diffidence of the 
unlettered, these men, who feared neither sea 
nor storm nor the death which lurks therein, nor 
any man as man to man, were more than willing 
to entrust the argument of words to Hulbert 's 

Sir Perceval's pace abated slightly when he 
came closer and encountered the steady gaze 
of the fisherfolk. He made straight for Hulbert, 
and stopped within a yard of his face. 

When Sir Perceval stopped the rest stopped, 
not unwillingly. The two keepers, strangers to 
the county like their master, looked across at the 
fishermen With that rather sullen expression of 
countenance which the unsociable nature of a 
gamekeeper's duties induces ; their eyes, roving 
over these stalwart beings of another world from 
theirs, betrayed curiosity but not hostility, 
which would in fact have been foolish in the 
circumstances. The constable was plainly un- 
comfortable ; he was between the millstones of 
duty and friendship. 

The landowner's face was crimson with anger, 
and he spluttered over his words, rattling out 
questions one after another. 

" What's all this ? What are you doing on 
my land ? " 

" Are you the King ? " asked Hulbert, coolly 
but forcibly. " This is the King's highway, and 
if you're not the King it can't be yours." 

Sir Perceval was in no mood to appreciate 
whimsical discussion, and the idea that he was 
being made fun of incensed him still more. 

" How dare you bring this pack of riff-raff on 
to my land ? How dare you break down my 
fence ? Who are you ? " 

The word " riff-raff " roused Hulbert. 

" And who the blazes are you ? " he demanded, 
raising his voice. " You insolent land-grabber I 
You upstart thief I How dare you block the 
Smuggler's Path ? " 

Now Sir Perceval Dacing's title is the reward 
of industry, and " upstart " did not soothe him 
at all. 

" You cursed agitator ! " he shouted. " You 
shall pay for this. I've blocked no path. There's 
no path here — it's in the sea, and for two pins 
1*11 throw you after it and your gang of wreckers 
with you ! " 

Excited by his own words, he lost his self- 
command and struck Hulbert in the face. 

An exclamation of anger came from the group 
of fishermer., and Hezekiah and young Ebenezer, 
who were standing nearest, started forward 
towards the baronet. 

Hulbert, flushing under the blow, had in- 
stinctively raised his fist to return it, but the 

man was twice his age and he checked himself, 
with fist at shoulder. 

At that moment there was a sound of swishing 
bushes, and a girl broke recklessly through the 
tamarisks on top of the bank beside the barbed 

Hulbert would have known her among ten 
thousand ; she was his girl of the cliff. Tossing 
away anger like a useless garment, his spirit 
sang for gladness at the sight of her. 

A charming girlish figure in short blue cotton 
frock and brown stockings, outlining delicate 
ankles and the reticent curve of the leg, she 
stood there for an instant silhouetted against the 
sky, surveying and interpreting the angry 
scene below — the two men face to face, Sir 
Perceval quivering with rage and Hulbert's fist 
poised against him ; the strong, tanned faces of 
the fishermen aflush with wrathful indignation ; 
the keepers gripping their half-lifted sticks in 
readiness for whatever might befall. Tom 
Pearson alone, guardian of the peace and, devotee 
of the quiet life, standing a little apart, raised a 
deprecating hand. 

Her flashing eyes dwelt on Hulbert. 

" You coward I " she cried in burning scorn, 
and, jumping lightly down, darted in front 
of the baronet. 

" Coward ! " she repeated, facing Hulbert. 
" He's twice as old as you ! " Then, turning to 
the baronet for a moment : " Has he hurt you, 
daddy dear ? The cowardly brute ! " Her con- 
tempt was withering. Hulbert was devoutly 
thankful to know it was unmerited. His arm 
was by his side now, but he could not take his 
eyes from her. Every moment of that vision 
was a draught of delight. 

Sir Perceval contended with an uncomfortable 
sense of foolishness. The keepers gazed absently 
towards the distant coverts ; the fishermen 
seemed much interested in the horizon, though 
to the casual eye it was absolutely un* 

" Nonsense, Philippa 1 ,f said the baronet, 
haltingly. " Go away, dear. This is no place 
for you. I'll join you presently." He took out 
a red bandana and mopped his face. 

For answer Philippa linked her arm in her 

" Come away from these horrid people, 
daddy," she said. " They are not worth bother- 
ing about." 

After a momentary contest between his sense 
of dignity and habitual deference to her judg- 
ment, Sir Perceval allowed himself to be turned 
about by the small hand of his daughter and 
marched off to the wicket-gate. The rest of 
his party followed slowly. 

A little disappointed, a little chastened, but 
immensely relieved by her departure, the fisher- 
men quietly gathered up their implements. 
Ebenezer broke the silence. 

" That be a fine wench," he said, oracularly. 
" Belike she'll be his daughter." 

His remark was received in tolerant silence, 
but it relieved v'he atmosphere of constraint. 

" Twas a f>u'i blow," \md Hezekiah, shaking 
his head. " I wonder ye could stand it. Why 




didn't ye tell tlie lass when she spoke so shame- 
ful ? '! 

" I didn't think of it/' Hulbert truthfully 

During the ensuing week the whole affair was 
discussed in all its visible bearings, Tom 
Pearson, in particular, invited condolence and 
won commendation for the discretion with which 
he had discharged his official duty against his 
personal sympathies- Sir Perceval gave no 
sign either of intention to prosecute (the news 
would have come quickly through Pearson) or 
of the restoration of his barrier* General 
satisfaction was expressed at the successful 

manner in which the public right had been 

Hulbert, for lus part, censidered his black eye 
a small price to pay for the opening of the path* 
Not for twenty black eyes would he have fore- 
gone the delight of seeing once more the girl of 
his secret devotion, and of discovering her name 
and habitation. 

Unfortunately, the circumstances in which he 
acquired the information made it difficult for 
him to use it. But sanguine youth makes little 
of such obstacle?. He decided that while loyalty 

to his 

of thJ 

^^ifP-VW* the strong* 401 * 
faytuSe^cBml^yned him to write 




and thank the princess who dwelt therein for 
saving his life. This he did, and, in return, he 
received a polite but chilly note of acknowledge 

Hulbert refused to be chilled ; on the contrary, 
the fires of his devotion were richly fed by the 
treasured sheet of paper touched by her own 
hands and bearing her own words written by her 
own fingers, 

Did she still scorn him for a coward ? Per- 
haps ; perhaps not- He did not worry about it, 
for he was living in a dream world created by 
his own adoration. He believed in love and its 
power to conquer all things. How or when his 

love for Philippa Daring would triumph over the 
obstacles which stood between him and her he 
had no conception* 

Wending his way to HoveUer's Cliff one sunny 
day, partly no doubt to sec that all was right 
with the Smuggler's Path, but certainly also in 
the vague hope of seeing Philippa and possibly 
speaking with her* Hulbert was astounded to 
find the path again obstructed. 

This time tile baronet had spared neither 
expense nor i»ai ns to make™ f barrier permanent. 
Instead! UrJiE^^^TftiidbdW^ldiild Itnam the estate, he 
had sent to town for an iron fence consisting of a 



strong frame threaded with stout wires very 
close together, very high and very sharp. Iron 
spikes in the shape of a quadrant stuck out over 
the cliff. 

Through the fence Hulbert descried Sir 
Perceval ; he looked like an animal in a cage, 
except that he was contemplating the structure 
with far greater satisfaction than the best 
regulated animal could be expected to feel. 

'■ Good morning, Sir Perceval," said Hulbert, 
airily. The egregious fellow already regarded 
the baronet as a potential father-in-law, and was 
disposed to be kind to him on that account. 

Sir Perceval stared at Hulbert through the 
bars. His manner was not cordial, though it 
may be surmised that the recollection of their 
last meeting on this spot moderated his asperity ; 
he had felt foolish himself, and Hulbert had 
certainly looked foolish, whatever he might have 
felt. A fellow feeling makes us kind. Also 
there was still the stain on Hulbert's eye. 

"Well, young man," said the baronet, laying 
a hand on the fence, " you won't break this down 
in a hurry." 

" We shall get it down, though, hurry or not," 
said Hulbert, calmly. 

Sir Perceval flared up at once. " Look here, 
Mr. " 

" Oldershaw," said Hulbert. • 

" I've been easy with you people so far, Mr. 
Oldershaw. Next time you'll have the law to 
deal with. I warn you ! " cried the baronet. 

" The law is on our side," said Hulbert, 
unperturbed — his ignorance of the law was 
complete. Then added : " And right. as well." 

The irascible baronet's face turned ruby red. 
" Right 1 " he cried, " you've no right to be 
standing where you are, you young " 

A long-drawn cry came faintly up to them. 

" Help ! He-elp ! " A woman's cry or a girl's. 

Hulbert was at the verge of the cliff in an 
instant, holding on to the fence, while his eyes 
searched the glittering surface of the sea. 

" My God ! she's in the Drift ! " 

It was too true. At the foot of the ness called 
Hoveller's Cliff is a submerged bank formed 
originally perhaps of dibris from the cliff. The 
ebb-tide dropping back towards the north 
strikes tl is bank and i - deflected seawards, pro- 
ducing the strong current known as Hoveller's 

Bathers who know the locality give the Drift 
a wide berth, for it has carried many a one to 
his doom. 

In the sweep of the current Hulbert discerned 
the black head of the swimmer. Her face was 
turned towards the shore and she was swimming 
strongly ; her neck, very white against the dark 
trailing mass of her hair, rose up at every stroke. 
But no earthly swimmer can master a four-knot 
tide race. Swimming towards the land, she was 
drifting out to sea. 

The baronet saw her almost as soon as Hulbert. 
His cry of anguish went to Hulbert's heart. 

"It's my daughter 1 Quick ! The Gap I " 
and Sir Perceval turned to run. « 

Then he remembered the fence and turned 
again. Hulbert had already made up his mind 

and was trying to swarm up the wires. It wa3 
useless ; the wires were too thin to give hold to* 
his hands. 

" Here ! " cried the baronet, " put your foot 
on my back I " And he bent down and jammed 
himself against the fence. But the wires were 
too close for Hulbert's toe to pass through. 
And now he saw that, even if he could swarm 
up, the long spikes on top were impossible for 
human flesh to cross. He threw up his jacket, 
but the spikes pierced the cloth like muslin. 
For the purpose for which it was designed 
the fence was deadly effective. 

" Help I " The cry from the sea was weaker 
and shorter, as though the swimmer were losing 

Sir Perceval's love for his daughter was 
genuine and deep. All the affection in his 
passionate nature was centred in her ; she was 
the core of his life. Now, helpless to save 
her, he saw her perishing before his eyes. No 
swimmer himself, he saw the one man who 
might have saved her prevented by the impas- 
sable fence which his own hand had set up. 
He saw himself the murderer of his own beloved 
child. In his despair he went mad and cursed 
himself. He seized the wires and shook them 
savagely, gnashing his teeth. 

Hulbert, trained and tested in war, took a 
grip of himself and looked down for something 
to get him over the fence and so to the Gap. 
His eye lighted on the old stockade lying in 
the grass ; he pounced upon it and tried to drag 
it to the fence, thinking to use it as an inclined 
plane up which to scramble. On$ tug showed 
him that the idea was useless ; he could hardly 
move the mass of timber, much less lift it 
without help, and Sir Perceval, the only man in 
hail, was cut off from him by the fence and 
might just as well be a thousand miles away. 

His heart sank. Oh, if she died he would not 
live 1 Better far to jump the cliff and meet 
her spirit as it fled 1 

Oh for a rope ! But ninety-foot ropes are 
not left lying about on cliffs. 

Ah, the stays ! Why not try ? In a moment 
he had whipped out his wire-cutters and was 
nipping off the four long lines — strong, supple 
stuff of many strands — from the discarded 
stockade. Desperately cool, throwing all his 
energy of brain and muscle into the -task, he 
knotted them together swiftly and without 
fumbling into a single rope, hitched one end of 
it to the foot of the iron fence, and with the rope 
.in his hand slid over the cliff. 

The wire was thin and smooth, and slipped 
through his hands, but the knots checked him. 
He managed to twist his body round so that he 
faced the sea. The last length had no knot. 

He dropped into space. 

Down, down he went, flinging arms and body 
into grotesque contortions in the effort to keep 
his body poised, while his eyes searched down- 
wards for a landing place — which he could not 
choose. He held his breath ; the air rushed 
past him. His velocity became terrific. 

It was all a xaatter of instants. He prepared 
hirasel:! for the impact, and, as his heels struck 



the edge of a 

loose slab of turf, 

he let his knees go and 

broke the shock— an old 

pymnasium trick ; but even so 

his thighs drove against his body 

with a paralyzing thump. 

Luckily, the turf gave under his 
wight, but toppled him over and sent 
him spinning down the soft slope of the 
moraine into the sea. The cold water pulled 
him together. He paused only to strip oft 
clothes and shoes, then waded out and 
pitched under the comb of a breaker. 
His hips still ach?d, but he applied his 
mother's rule instilled in childhood : 
" Don't think about it/' and he soon 
forgot it, / 

' Help ! " Faint and far the cry 
came to him over the sea, She ma 
well away to the northward now, but 
he swam straight out from the shore. 
He wanted the Drift. Presently it / 
caught him; he felt the sideways / 
fling, gave himself to it* and veered 
to the north, Then he settled 
down to swim. 

Sir Perceval, on his knees at 
the top of the cliff, gripping his 
fatal fence and staring through 
the wire, watched every stroke. 
His agitation was pitiful ; 
prayers and curses, entreaties, 
exhortations and regrets, all 
mixed together, poured with- 
out ceasing from his bab- 
bling lips I — 

" Oh, my God I My 
little Phil— don't let her 
drown ! — go on r boy ! — 
curse this fence 1 — <Jear 
Lord, she's all I have 1— 
good boy* now again I — 
oh, devil take the fence 1 
^don't punish me like 
that 1 — * quick, quick, 
she's going I — I was 
greedy — he's corning, 
Phil, he's coming I — 
at was all for her— 
^wim, lad — I'll give it 
back, I swear I ♦ , /' 

Hulbert swam on 
his side with a rolling 
motion, cutting the 
water with his 
shoulder and 
burying his 
head at every 
Stroke. He 
Mm smooth- 
ly, regularly, 

and without flurry, but he held back nothing of 
himself ; his single desire was to reach her, 






run dowi 

and to that end he put every 
ounce of his force into his stroke 
and gradually increased his rate 
of striking. His legs worked like 
hammers* The pace was killing- 
Jet it kill ! He would last until 
he reached her. 

He should be near her now. 
Another stroke or two, and he 
came over on his chest to look. 
Nothing ahead — could he have 
passed her ? He turned about* 
looked all around him, searching 
the sea with keen and eager eye. 
Nothing I 

And there in the midst of the 
sea the young man's spirit first 
envisaged desolation — the desola- 
tion of failure irremediable, the 
desolation of the lover whose love 
is lost to hini, for which there is 
no comfort, He yearned for the 
refuge of extinction. 

Twenty feet away, a black patch 
grew in the water, spreading out 
I i ke floating weed * Hu I be rt struc k 
furiously towards it, and while he 
swam the patch lightened and her 
face rose out of the sea, 

She was turned away from him, 
but her head lay so well back 
upon the water that he saw the 
lashes of her closed eyes. A surge 
of triumph, pride, and confidence 
swept through his heart; for he 
knew that, though she was ex- 
hausted and all but gone, she was 
still conscious and had never lost 
her presence of mind. He felt 
that he would save her. 

She heard the swirl of his 
strokes, opened her eyes, and saw 
him. Her eyes closed again. 
The water was lapping her lips? 
when his hands reached her. 

He took her under the arms, 
turned on his back, and swam 
gently, holding her before him 
and marvelling at the abundance 
of her hair. Presently he felt her 
hands touch his and knew that 
she was rested a little, So he 
guided her hands to his shouldenj 
and betook himself to a steady 
breast-stroke. The touch of her 
hands exalted him. He felt that 
he could swim for ever. 

In clear weather very little of 
what happens on this side of the 
horizon escapes the eagle eyes of 
Dunestrand. Without ceasing they 
read the book of sea and sky, 
that inexhaustible and ever- 
chanting r*croU of wonder. 

oilier salts had S' en Piiilippn 
JSftltf t'TOll^aJtaANand watched 

26 4 


Iter swimming out, first with admiration, then 
with anxiety, for they knew almost to a yard 
how far she could safely go. As she approached 
the limit of safety, excitement found vent 
in scolding and exclamations of alarm. 

But when the Drift caught her, they hurried 
down as one man. (with no word said) and ran 
out the old pilot gig* Smartly away, the 
narrow craft was soon flying through the water, 
straight for the spot where they knew she 
must be by -the time they could reach hen Heze- 
kiah, standing at the helm, apprised the rowers 
of all he saw, of Philippa's gradual weakening, 
and Hulbert's stern pursuit- 

Huibert was paddling feebly, just enough 
to keep them afloat, when the boat came up, 
yet he was almost sorry, for to be alone with 
her in life or death was all he craved. 

He held the boat while Hezekiah lifted 
her from the sea like a tired child- A 
giant's jersey made her a smock and a 
skirt in one, Another jersey covered 
Huibert. Side by side in the stern- 
sheets, as the gig aped shore wards, they 
drifted into the land of drowse, she un- 
consciously snuggling against him, he 
with his arm round her, and his cheek 
against her hair — and Hezekiah's great 
arm round both* 

concrete, is usefully employed in protecting the 
base of HoveUer's Cliff from the erosive action 
of the waves to which this part of the coast is 
seriously exposed* 

The coastguard's stone on HoveUer's Clifi 
glowed white in the summer dusk- She faced 
Mm and came close. 

" I called you a coward/' 
The warm blood steeped 
her cheeks as she uttered 
the shameiul word. Her 
frank eyes, bright with 
tears, looked wistfully 
into his, 


The Smuggler's Path is open now and will 
never be closed. 

In gratitude for his daughter's life Sir 
Perceval has dedicated it to the public for ever, 
whether it falls into the sea or not. If neces- 
sary, the tamarisks are to be sacrificed. 

Whether it was ever his to dedicate has never 
been decided* Doubtless the Law knows, but 
the Law will not tell, except at great expense* 

The very efficient fence, decently burled in 

His eyes held worship, and her worshipper 
would not be her confessor. 

" I am a coward— Phi lippa, dear," he said. 

She came so near that her bosom almost 
touched him ; her sweet girl-scent was like a 
waft of Eden, A smile danced in the glistening 
mirror of her eyes. She turned away her face 
and bent b/^r chc^lz the tiniest, tenderest bit 




^he Experience 

'Popular Jlrtistes. 



N my opinion, the 
thing that counts 
most is the delivery 
of a joke. That is 
the great point to study. 
For instance, a mere move- 
ment of the hand or a 
twi telling of the eyebrows 
may help. It often hap- 
pens that* getting a joke 
successfully across the 
foot lights for the first 
time, one forgets this 
point t and blames the 
density of the audience 
because the joke falls flat, 
Suddenly you remember 
how you first delivered it, 
and try the same method 
again, to find, in nine 
cases out of ten, that 
your joke is a real 

T certainly think a subtle joke goes best, but 
here again an artiste has to be guided by the 
class and temperament of the audience. Per- 
haps what I might term the conundrum joke is 
most generally appreciated, and, although to 
iome it may be a chestnut, this one, the best 
VoL IviiL— 17, 

I think I have told, rarely fails to raise a laugh : 
M Mose, what is the difference between a 
bucket of milk in a rain-storm and a conversation 
between two confidence men ? " 

" Say, boss, dat nut am too hard to crack ; 
Tse prime to give it up," 

" Well, Mose, one is ^a thinning scheme and 
the other is a skinning theme," 


If people expect to 
laugh, they will laugh, 
whether a joke is really 
funny or not- So the 
moral is : Make them ex- 
pect to laugh. 

New jokes are terribly 
hard to find, and even 
when found it 13 terribly 
hard to know if they are 
any use, except by trying 
them on the audience* 
So we do try them, and 
they fall desperately flat* 
and somebody says to 
somebody else : " Oh, I 
saw oid Funny-Face last 
night. He was bad. Not 
a bit funny." And some- 
body sa^']|itff^n5V*dJi}M 



else : "I hear Funny-Face has gone off terribly ; 
I wouldn't go to see him if I were you.' 1 And 
that seals the fate of the man who runs a joke 

Most jokes are really tragedies* That's why 
they seem funny. An audience will shriek with 
laughter at the sight of a man cutting himself, 
or banging his head, or getting run over by a 
bus — all tragedies to the man and jokes to the 

I have generally found, however, that catch- 
phrases are more successful Jaughter-raisers than 
elaborate jokes, and people never seem tired of 
hearing me repeat, fl How's your father ? " 
" Wiat a common man I " *' Isn't it annoying, 
pa-pa?" "I don't think/ 1 and rny latest, 
" Thanks. Very much.* 1 

It is no use telling a joke, however, to an 
audience unless you have good lungs. It Ls 
necessary for them to know what you are talking 
about, thus obviating the necessity of somebody 
in the back row in the circle saying to his or 
her friend > *' What did he say ? " A subtle joke 
is more appreciated at the London Hippodrome 
than at a place like Sunderland, At the latter 
town if you get a custard and hit a man in the 
face with it, they would roar with laughter. In 
the North or Midlands good domestic jokes are 
always appreciated, especially if told in their 


The success of a joke 
depends entirely upon the 
personality of the person 
who tells it, and the manner 
in which it is told. " Wha.t 
a funny -Loo king little fat 
man/' a flapper was heard 
to exclaim, after lo* iking 
at me for a minute or 
two. Well. I try to be 
funny. I cannot help being 
fat, and I have noticed 
that people seem to laugh 
most when I make a joke 
against myself ; when I 
mention, for instance, that 
it is a wonder to me that 
I am not an exhibit at 
some freak establishment, 
or that my landlord is 
charging me more rent 
because of the bulges I 
have caused in the walls 
of the house, 

I am quite convinced 
that a London audience, 
or those down South, are more demonstrative 
when they see a point. Up North they may see 
it, but they keep it to themselves, and very often 
an artiste thinks he is a failure, whereas all the 
time he is appreciated by the Northerner in hia 
own quiet way. 

Suit yourself to conditions generally, and you 
are safe. Personally speaking, I think I can 
lay claim to being as popular up North as I am 

in London, Why ? Because I adapt myself t° 
circumstances, and am able to broaden a joke 
out and teli it in their own dialect. I suppose it 
sounds funny. Neve rthel ess , jokes that sound 
funny to a Londoner fail hopelessty in some 
Northern towns. Sometimes a subtle joke 
tickles them, particularly if it is a local or topical 
one. At the moment of writing, I am appearing 
at Sunderland and West Hartlepool, two towns 
which have the reputation of being the toughest 
on record. And, believe me, there fe a great 
amount of truth in it. Still F these things are 
sent to try us. Too much plain sailing would 
make us lazy, so we have to buck up. 


A stage joke needs a 
jot of coaxing to make it 
go every night. There 
are so many kinds of 
jokes to be found in a 
musical comedy. There 
is first the 4 * situation 
joke/ 1 This is not neces- 
sarily funny by itself, 
but has to do with the 
action of the plot and 
the circumstances under 
which it is said. To make 
such a joke go you must 
have the help and co- 
operation of your col- 
leagues, for if the other 
actors fail to understand 
the humour of it, drop 
th^ir voices on the ques- 
tion to which your pet 
joke is the answer, the 
audience, not having heard 
the question, naturally 
cannot understand the 
humour of the answer. 

Then there is the lady 
or gentleman who rattles on with the play as soon 
as the " wheeze " has been " cracked." However 
funny the line, the audience, seeing another 
person's mouth apparently saying something, 
naturally stifle their mirth to hear something 
which they hope will be as good, and so bang 
goes the laugh on that. 

Now we come to the " business "—that b. the 
silent action — joke. This is fairly plain sailing, to 
an audience will always look where very often 
they will not listen. So in this case the other 
actors in a scene have just got to wait for yon. 

The London audience is the beL*t and rn«>-t. 
loyal in the world, Given a company of cheery 
souls, however, who are out to make the play * 
big success, which they mean to enjoy as well as 
the audience* a comedian need have no difficulties. 


What astonishes me is the number of poor 
jokes that go, while really clever ones do not 
raise a smile. A joke, gag, or song, ho^ vef * 



times, aJ though rendered 
in l lie same way later, fall 
off considerably, owing to 
the change of taste in the 
audience or the conditions 
of the moment. Each 
type of audience must be 
studied carefully, and in 
my own case my jokes, 
which are in my songs, 
are rendered quite differ - 
^ft cntly to an East -end audi* 
^fl ™ ence to what they are 

when I am appearing in 
m A the West-end. 

^^^ £ The success of a joke 

B^^B depends entirely on the 

. ^k mood of an audience, the 

sort of joke they are ex- 
pecting and are on the 
look-out for from the 
jokist* The subtle joke, 
if really funny, is greatly appreciated ■ so is 
the topical, if well placed, The broad joke is 
liked by a certain section of the audience only. 
My most successful joke was when I received 
my salary in full for non-appearance. 


A good deal depends 
on the delivery of a 
joke. Sometimes after the 
joke is fired it needs a 
little look from the per- 
former, or maybe a slight 
gesture, or both, to make 
it " go," That applies 
more to the subtle joke. 
The obvious one, of course, 
docs not need much by- 

Then, again, h\ some 
cases it isn't so much 
what one says as how one 
says it 1 It may be a 
very simple thing, but as 
it suits— or fits — the per- 
sonality of the performer, 
ft "goes." 

Audiences vary a little, 
of course, but personally 
I do not find any differ- 
ence in appreciation, or 
* * seeing the j kes , ' * in 
London or the provinces. 
Certainly, I have had the 
experience — as all other comedians have— of 
finding a joke which has been a hit at place after 
place, suddenly miss fire at some hall (it may be 
London or the provinces), and have wondered 
why, but could find no solution. 

Sometimes the audience gets a good joke 
in, I ie member some years ago going to 
a hall in Scotland. The first line of my 
opening song was, " I went up to London a 
few weeks ago," when a small, thin voice came 

from the gallery, " It f s a pity you didn't stop 

Some joke and some laugh, brieve me, 


To say what really 
makes a joke go is not 
easy, even to a man who 
earns his living telling 
them. There are so many 
kinds of jokers* There is 
the man who reels off a 
long string of funny tales ; 
there is the topical joker 
who makes his jokes out 
of the happenings of the 
moment. There is the 
character comedian who 
fits his jokes round the 
particular character he is 
portraying ; the domestic 
comedian who gets humour 
out of the everyday life 
of the man in the street, 
and the burlesque come- 
dian who broadens out 
his comedy, really making 
a living caricature of 
the personality he is 

Again, all audiences 
differ. Every theatre has 
its different patrons, and they each want a 
different type of humour. They are the buyers, 
we are the salesmen, and they will not buy what 
they do not want* This explains why many 
music-hall acts do not go as well in one town as 
they do in another. Some of our greatest 
London comedians have not been accepted by 
the provinces, and vice versa. 

I think the most successful corned ian is the 
one who makes his jokes keep pace with the 
times. That is to say, the comedian who makes 
his jokes fit in with the topic of the hour. To 
make a joke go, however, you must have a good 
delivery. There is the gallery and circle to 
please, as well as the stalls, and they have all 
paid to hear you. Again, it is not necessary to 
ram a joke down the throats of the audience. 
They have intelligence as well as you. Give 
them the joke, let them think it out for them- 
selves. If they like it they will say so ; if not, 
get on with the next, quick. 

A comedian must be an actor first and a 
comedian after. That is to say, he must be 
able to act his joke, not say it like a parrot. 
The old saying in the profession is, when in 
doubt fall over* That is rather a hard way if 
putting it, because an audience will not always 
laugh if you fall over. If, however, you can 
show a good reason for falling over^ and you 
can do it well, the whole house will laugh, 
because it is something they can all see and don't 
have to strain their ears to catch, 

A happy smile eocs a "biig way r and the most 
succiessfmlMipto^iiaL.- ,the 1 jaipuw^hp makes the 
people tninlc Weis erij5y4n£ \V as' 'touch as they. 

2 68 



There are various kinds 
of successful " gags " — the 
spontaneous t clever, and 
funny remark of the 
moment, or the clever 
repartee* at an interrup- 
tion or happening in the 
audience, for instance. I 
am supposed to be rather 
famous for these, as I 
have seldom been at a 
Joss, In fact I have scored 
so many times that the 
audiences used to think 
it was an arranged part 
of my performance. 

I have been most noted 
for my up-to-date topical 
remarks* A London paper 
a few weeks ago, noticing 
my latest show, " John 
Bull's Music-Hall" said: 
" One knew Bransby Wil- 
liams had read and ab- 
sorbed the very evening's 
newspapers, as his gags 
came to two-thirds of the audience as too 
pre mature. fl 

■ These topical gags sometimes get a roar of 
applause, and laughter for a couple of days, and 
pall in three or four. Yet there are comedians 
in so-called " revues " doing old 4I gags " of 
coupons and queues. 

You can hear the same " gags " trotted out 
by scores of comedians. Some of them use 
them so long that they believe they really belong 
to them. Yet that same poor M gag " was stolen 
from another by their forefathers. Poor " gag " f 
It sometimes has long, Rip Van Winkle whiskers, 
and some revue -writer shaves it and gives it a 
'* hair-cut " and trots it out again. At panto- 
mime time all the poor things are turned out of 
all the property-baskets and shelves of memory. 
These can be bought in " gag " books- -hence 
the '* sameness 1J of the music-hall comedian and 
revue comedian* 

Subtle " gags ,J are mostly a failure. You 
find yourself and one or two interested, and the 
others thinking I Broad and blue jokes I have 
no room for, although sometimes in a spon 
taneous ,r gag " a double meaning is innocently 
given and seen. 

I think the South of England, except towns 
like Brighton, are the densest for " gags/' Up 
North a clever " gag " goes best. An actor 
who can act a " gag, JI however, is the most 
successful. Some men only collect " gags ** and 
recite them, and then wonder why they fall flat. 
Personality is the main thing. 


My idea of making a joke, whether spoken 
or acted, go, is never to dwell upon a single point 
sufficiently long to Jet the humour exhaust itself. 

Thus* before the audience has quite done laughing 
at one of my "thumbnail impersonations/* as I 
term them* I have begun to set them laughing 
at something else. There is no need to invent 
jokes. You can find one in every street — -in the 
little tricks of walk, speech* and action that go 
to make up an individual. And it is the parodies 
on personalities that make an audience laugh. 
They love to see the peculiarities of others 
copied, foTgctting at times that theirs would be 
just as funny if caricatured* 

Some people's idea of humour, however, is 
very quaint. On one oc- 
casion I was appearing at 
the Palladium when Lewis 
Waller was also in the bill 
with his Julius Caesar 
sketch, I received a letter 
containing the follow- 
ing :— 

" I would suggest, as 
an excellent bit of busi- 
ness for Waller's * Julius 
Caesar J sketch, that when 
Waller turns to his crowd 
of Roman rioters and ex- 
claims t - Oh, lend me thine 
ear/ or something of that 
sort, a number of the 
crowd should be made to 
pull off artificial ears and 
hold them out to him. 

* - I believe this would 
create a roar in the house, 
and my friends think so 
too. Can't vou tell Waller 
this ? " 

I did, and left him 
gasping, _ 


The most successful joke or " gag " is un- 
doubtedly the apt remark, funnily fired at tht 
right moment. It is designed to deceive the 
audience into believing that every word tht 
artiste utters is a sparkling spontaneity of hi* 
thought on the spot. The real trouble is that 
'* gaging " is a great strain. It takes much 
laughter from one's own life to manufacture 
laughs for other people ! Consequently, the 
gentle art of gagging is by no means a mere 
hobby — -rather is it a disease, a mania- 

There are no new jokes ; but there are fresh 
ways of serving them up. If, for instance, 
instead of 'saying a man is " in the soup/' you 
proclaim that he is " up to his ankles in the 
consomme," it may tickle your West-end audi- 
ence. Again t if, instead of telling the man with 
scanty locks to " keep your hair on," you advise 
him to put a fence round his solitary hairs, other 
people may U- amused, if be is rmt. 

Here is a gag that* with all modesty, I can 
assure you was a genuine impromptu, One 
evening, while playing in " The Belle of Brittany/' 
I was in the mid ] e ot singing a song when a noisy 
a tifl f . ff ^.^f!p r fi^fp 5W r j ^rty of s« ruddy 



to a 
ma ke 

* hit. 

pushed their way into the 
stalls, chattering loudly 
about their seats, and up- 
setting everyone. A sud- 
den inspiration caused me 
to stop singing, look at the 
bril Li an U y-ga r bed . bad I y- 
behaved late comers > then 
turn to someone on the 
stage and say: "The 
Tooting express has just 
arrived, then ? " I must 
confess , however, that the 
noisy party did not seem 
to enjoy the gag. 

Most successful jokes, 
however, have to be built 
up. The capacity for con- 
structive humour is neces- 
sary; and each new sketch, 
play, or pantomime calls 
for fresh effort. Person- 
ally, I believe in the subtle 
joke- The broad joke may 
be appreciated by some, 
bat I think the subtle, 
whimsical, droll w twist " 
incident is more likely to 


The juke that goes is the joke contained in a 
witty* tuneful song. There must be some 
sparkle in it. That is why I am so particular in 
my choice of songs. I have spent as much as 
five hundred pounds a 
year on songs, only to 
n:;d probably three or 
four which I could include 
in my repertoire* Dear 
old Dan Leno was the 
best judge of a joke and 
its effect on the audience 
that I ever knew, " Don't 
tell or sing them some- 
thing they have got to 
think about/' lie would 
&&y, " Give them some- 
thing that will hit them 
at once." That is my 

The simple and obvioos 
is the best joke. In cold 
print the lines : — 
" When once I ate an 
apple the whole uni- 
verse was stirred ; 
Now girls can eat 
bananas and no one 
says a word/* 
do not. perhaps, seem 
particularly humorous, yet 
when I have sung them 
in my song on Mother Eve they have raised 
the heartiest of laughs. But jokes and songs 
depend entirely on delivery for success. 


It is a peculiar thing that hosts of suggestions 
for gags have reached me from audiences* Yet, 
when I have tried some of them now and again 
they have not been ap- 
preciated. Which would 
seem to point to the fact 
that an audience does not 
always know its own taste 
in jokes. Humour, how- 
ever, is a very peculiar 
thing, and an artiste 
must, of necessity, keep 
on changing and culti- 
vating his jokes until he 
strikes the right notes. 
We are just in the same 
position as the editor ai 
a humorous paper. Like 
the comedian, he must 
keep on " ringing :he 
changes " if he is to hold 
and entertain his public. 

I have cracked so 
many jokes that it is 
not easy to choose any 
particular one as an ex- 
ample of the most suc- 
cessful. Perhaps, how- 
ever, my " gag " in 
" Tina/' at the Adelphi, 
was one of the most ap- 
preciated, when as Van 

Dan. the cocoa king, I said, speaking of my 
daughter's possible marriage with a duke : — ■ 

* That's all right — we')! reverse tilings ! Duke 
marries into the beverage/' 


To my mind the more obvious and simple the 
joke the better, I have a great faith in impromptu 
humour, or what seems impromptu, I am 
always looking for openings for gags, but spon- 
taneity in gagging does not always occur. Most 
gags have to be thought out carefully before- 

The alleged spontaneous gag is frequently 
constructed with the breakfast egg, or the kipper, 
as the case may be. It depends upon the money 
an artiste is making whether he has an egg or a 
kipper for breakfast. I remember some time ago 
playing in a pantomime when a certain small- 
part lady was employed to laugh the moment a 
certain comedian delivered a gag and thus set 
the house a -giggling. On one occasion she 
forgot to laugh and the joke went flat, She was 
sacked. This was forced gagging, I'll admit, 
but none the less it was gagging so-called* 

Someone has said that the public prefer 
gagging to singing ; but I should doubt this. 
Much depends upon the nature of the gag. If 
the gag is witty, well and good ; if it is dull and 
chestnutty, rt r ; is n tettgc T left unsaid. Stock 
phrases must^^ksomp, to audiences. 

The WHRfiOTcUeUh fhle-woflMtls good, honest, 

1 70 


hearty laughter, and to 
command that tribute 
from your audience, you 
must appeal in a good, 
honest, and hearty man- 
ner to their sense of 
humour, But humour, 
like everything else that 
is engrained in our nature, 
is of the most elusive 
quality. You may read 
a song or a joke, and 
think it is i*cry clever 
and humorous, and yet 
fmd it does not appeal 
successfully to the audi- 
ence. On the other hand, 
the simplest song in my 
rejtertoire, " G, O. Capi- 
tal O/' was one of my 
greatest successes, The 
humour of this lay in the 
absurdity of asking the 
audience to take it 
seriously, just as in the 
case of Lear's limericks. 


Everything depends on the way a juke is 
delivered. The fact is, no one can learn how to 
make others laugh. It is an inborn gift, though, 
of course, it requires cultivation ; hut if you 
haven't the gift it is not much use trying to 
acquire it. 

Like most comedians, I have no end of offers 
(for cash) of all sorts of ideas for jokes and funny 
songs, but the fact is the great majority of people 
have no idea of the sort of joke that is likely to 
go well with a theatrical audience* Most of the 
jfjkcs I am offered are too 
deep, and want explaining, 
and I need hardly say that 
a joke of this snrt is no use 
at all to a comedian. 

A catch -phrase is often 
the best kind of joke. 
For instance, in panto- 
mime, in Liverpool, a few 
years ago, I happened to 
hit on a gag that became 
very popular. li So that's 
it— t'is it ? " Repeat it, 
and you'll see what I 
mean. By the end of the 
pantomime it was quite a 
catch-phrase all over the 

Curiously enough, a week 
after the pantomime 
finished Mr. Fred Terry 
appeared at the same 
theatre in " The Scarlet 
Pimpernel/ 1 In one im- 
portant scene he had to 
walk to a door, turn 
round and say. gravely, 

" So that's it, is it ? '* On his opening night 
he played the scene as usual, walked to the 
door and remarked, " So that's it, is it ? " 
And I don't believe he knows to this day why 
the audience gave a positive yell, and laughed 
for nearly five minutes. 


In my case a sad face makes a joke go. I can't 
afford to enjoy a joke, I daren't risk a lau^h in 
public. My greatest sorrow is that people seem 
to think I'm a big joke and Insist on calling me 
a comedian. The more melancholy I am, the 
more they seem to laugh. They never seem 
tired of hearing me talk about blighted love, 
funerals, and insurance money. 

There's no doubt that London and the South 
appreciate a joke the most, although the big 
towns of the Midlands 
come a good second, A 
subtle joke goes best with 
a select audience, and 
good* clean , domestic 
humour with the majority. 
It is seldom one can fore- 
tell if a joke is going to 
get a big laugh until it 
is tried on the audience, 
and the* impromptu one 
— in other words, gag — is 
very often better than the 
carefully^ thought -out one. 
And. talking of gagging, 
the art of this is to know 
when to stop, 

Arthur Roberts has been 
the finest "gagster" we 
have ever had, and it was 
very seldom he made a 
joke that didn't fit the 
scene. This is where so 
many would-be comedians 
fail. They imagine be- 
cause they think of a 
gag, it can go in any 
scene or any play. 

Situation is the most important thing towards 
the success of a joke. A gag that is palpably 
dragged in seldom scores Y and very often the 
simplest form of humour is the most effective. 
For instance, the biggest laugh I had in nA The 
Arcadians " was the line, if Who owes him the 
threepence ? " spoken at the end of another 
actor's dramatic speech— showing it was the 
situation that was responsible for the gag getting 
the laugh, 


I am of ufflnhm that circumstances nuke a 
joke go* It is useless for a delineator of in** 
briated characters to appear at a Band of Hup* 
can cert* or for a gentleman who juggles talkiffith 
the assistance of a block cf ice to perform at a 
Deaf and Dv.irib Asylum. 

ffi^T^lYfi^ .J^W***™ comedian tell 



" Eh, by Goom " story in Lancashire^ and again 
in London, you will be led to wonder where tUe 
artiste has lost his art* He hasn't— only lost his 
"circumstances/* Printing will make that joke 
go ! 

If a Scotsman, with Ids foot on his native 
heath, tells a mean story of his race, he won't 
get the Laugh he is certain 
to get if he tells it down 
South, the circumstances 
here being that we all 
enjoy a joke at the ** other 
fellow's J " expense. An 
instance of this is the 
joke concerning which 
town possesses the bravest 
man, Liverpool or Man- 
chester. A native of each 
place agreed to fight in 
a dart room. Nothing 
happening for five minutes 
after they were locked in, 
the door was opened , the lights put on, and the 
Liverpool man had disappeared, eventually 
being found up the chimney* Of course this 
story told in Manchester will always go well. 
After you have told it, conclude by saying : 
" When i tell this story in Liverpool I put the 
Manchester man up the chimney/" 

In the Ventriloquist scene I have with George 
Robey in " Joy Bells/' the following occurs : — 

F. A. — -If you don't go out at once I'll fetch 

an attendant and put you out. 

G, R. (rolling up his sleeves)— Oh I So you're 

going to start the rough stuff, are you ? 

F. A* — -Yes I And if that's the attitude you're 

going to adopt I'll fetch two attendants. 

G. It. — -You fetch two attendants and I'll give 

you a couple of whacks. 

That this last line brought a big round of 
applause was due to the circumstance that a 
couple of W. A,A*C/s were seated by his side* 

Tt may be suggested that the applause was 
due to a ready wit, but a ready-witted remark 
of thrice the calibre without the attendant 
dTcmmstances would not have got one quarter 
the recognition. 

Naturally one adapts oneself to one'S audience, 
and the ability to do so places artistes in their 

various spheres. To get well home in the North, 
my own experience is that you must give 
dialogue with a punch in every line. Up there 
they work hard, play hard, and teach you to be 
brief and to the point. In the South the cir- 
cumstances of work and play differ, and a joke 
may be elaborately led up to, but in the North 
they want a good meal and " no trimmings/' 


If a joke contains a 
joke, I find it appreciated 
much the same whether 
playing North or South, 
Northern audiences are a 
trifle more critical, but 
just as quick as audi- 
ences South (and perhaps 
a little more so) . 

Telling jokes depends 
a good deal upon the 
plaoe they are told in. 
For instance, one can 
make a great laughing 
success in one hall, and 
find himself almost a 
failure in another hall 
only a stone's throw 
away. This is accounted 
for probably by the 
second building being too 
large for the single-handed 

Audiences, of course, 
vary, and this calls to 
mind a certain well- 
known comedian* who 

played at a house supposed to be very hard to 
please. After he had done his turn and made 
the audience rock with laughter, lie walked up 
to the manager, saying : — ■ 

" I was told your audiences were absolutely 
rotten. Why. they yelled at my jokes/ 1 

M Ah." replied the manager, " that was not 
your fault. There was a comedian here two 
weeks ago telling the same jokes, and they've 
just tumbled to them/* 

Photos of George Robey, George Mozart ; Alfred Lester, Stanley Lupino, George Graves t Leslie 
Hensoti t and Miss Marie Lloyd by FotUsh&m and Banfield ; Gus Eten t Jack Pleasants, and 
Br an shy Williams by Hana ; 7\ E. Dunville by Bassano ; Wilkie Bard by Pr other oe ; Harry 
Tate by Claude Harris ; Fred Allandale by J. P. Bamber ; W r H, Berry and Miss L?e White 
by Arbuthnot ; and Ernie Mayne by Dobsans* 

by Google 

Original from 



nruiH 5 ^ f*& 28 °) Original frarr 
Jigilizeti Dy \juugn* UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 




i|T depends entirely," 
remarked the Great 
Doctor, twirling an 
empty wine-glass in 
his long, sensitive 
fingers, " what you mean by 
fear. The common interpreta- 
tion of the word — the method 
which I think ^you would use to portray it on the 
stage " — he turned to the Celebrated Actor, who 
was helping himself to a cigarette from a silver 
box on the table in front of him — " would show a 
nervous shrinking from doing a thing : a positive 
distaste to it — a probable refusal, finally, to 
carry out the action. And rightly or wrongly — 
but very naturally — that emotion is the object 

of universal scorn. But " and the Great 

Doctor \ paused thoughtfully — "is there no 
more in fear than that ? " 

The Well-known Soldier drained his port. 
" It would be a platitude to remark," he said, 
" that the successful overcoming of fear is the 
highest form of bravery." 

11 That jf , for instance, our young friend had 
overcome his fear this afternoon," said the 
Rising Barrister, " and had jumped in after that 
horrible little dog, it would have been an act 
of the highest bravery." 

" Or the most stupid bravado," supplemented 
the Celebrated Actor. 

11 Precisely my point;" exclaimed the Great 
Doctor. " What is the dividing line between, 
bravado and bravery ? " 

The Well-known Soldier looked thoughtful. 
"The man," he said at length, "who exposes 
himself to being killed or wounded when there is; 
no necessity, with probably— at the bottom of 
his mind— a desire to show off, is guilty of 
capable bravado. The man who, when /his 
battalion is faltering, exposes himself to certain 
death to hold them is brave." 

44 Two extreme cases," answered the Doctor/ 
" Narrow it down, General, Whit is the dividing 
line ? " 

" I suppose," murmured the Soldier, " when 
the results justify the sacrifice. No man has a 
right to throw his life away uselessly." 
" In those circumstances/' said the Rising 

- -Sapper 

Illustrated By Christopher Clark R.I. 

Barrister, ." there can be no fixed dividing line. 
Every man must decide for himself ; and what 
is bravery in you, might be bravado in me." 

The Doctor nodded. " Undoubtedly," he 
agreed. " And with a thoughtful man that 
decision may be very difficult. For the fraction 
of a second he will hesitate — weigh up the pros 
and cons ; and even if he decides to do it finally, 
it may then be too late." N 

" Only a fool would have gone in after that 
dog," said the Actor, dogmatically. 

" Women love fools," answered the Barrister, 
d propos of nothing in particular ; : and the 
Celebrated Actor snorted contemptuously. 

" Which is why the man who is reputed to 
know no fear is so universally popular," said the 
Soldier. " If such a man exists, he is most 
certainly a fool." 

The door opened and their hostess put her 
head into the room. " You men have got to 
come and dance," she cried. " There's no good 
looking at one another and hoping for bridge : 
you can have that afterwards." 

The. strains of a gramophone can\e faintly 
from the drawing-room as they rose duttfully . , 
~ "I cannot perpetrate these new ; atrocities, 
de^r lady," remarked the Soldier, " but if any- 
body would like to have a barn dance, I, shall 
be happy to do my best." 

" Sybil shall take you in hand, Sir John," .she 
answered j, leading the way across the hall. 
" By the way, young Captain Seymour, the 
V.C. flying-man, has come up. . Such a nice 
boy — so modest and unassuming." / . . - 

. As they entered the room a fresh one-step {lad 
just started, and ior a while they stood. watching, 
The two sons of the house, just home from Eton, 
Were performing vigorously wfth two pretty 
girls from a neighbouring place ; while Sybil, 
their sister, who was to take the General in 
hand, floated past m the arms of a keen-eyed, 
bronzed young man who had \vo:a the V.C. for 
a flying exploit that read like a fairy-tale. The 

Copyright, 1919, by H. C McNeile. 



other two couples were girls dancing together ; 
while, seated on a sofa, knitting placidly, were 
two elderly ladies. 

" And where, Lady Vera," murmured the 
Actor to his hostess, " is our young friend 
Peter ? " 

She frowned almost imperceptibly and looked 
away. " He disappeared after he left the dining- 
room/' she remarked, shortly. " I suppose, in 
view of what occurred this afternoon, he prefers 
to be by himrelf." 

The Actor ran a delicate hand through Jjis 
magnificent grey hair — it was a gesture for which 
he was famous — and regarded his hostess in 
surprise. " Even you, Lady Vera 1 " he remarked, 
pensively. " I can understand these young 
girls blaming the boy ; but for you — a woman 
of sense — — " He shrugged his shoulders— 
another world -famed movement, feebly imitated 
by lesser lights. 

" I don't think we will discuss the matter, 
Mr. Dee ring," she said, turning away a little 

It had been a somewhat unpleasant incident 
at the time, and the unpleasantness was still 
apparently far from over. Madge Saunderson, 
one of the girls stopping in the house, had been 
the owner of a small dog of rat-like appearance 
and propensities, to which she had been devoted. 
She shared this devotion with no one, the animal 
being of the type that secretes itself under 
chairs and nips the ankle of the next person who 
unsuspectingly sits down. However, De moriuis. 
. . . And since its violent death that afternoon, 
Toots — which was the animal's name — had been 
invested with a halo. Its atrocious habits were 
forgotten : it lived in everyone's memory as 
poor little Toots. 

It was over its death that Peter Benton had 
made himself unpopular. Not far from the house 
there was a disused mill, past which, at certain 
times of the year, the water poured in a black, 
evil-looking torrent, emerging below into a deep 
pond cupped out in the rocks. For a hundred 
yards before the stream came to the old mill- 
wheel the slope of the ground affected it to such 
an extent that, if much rain had fallen in the 
hills aboye, the current . was dangerous. The 
water swirled along, its smoothness broken 
only by an occasional eddy, till with ever- 
increasing speed it dropped sheer into the 
pond, twenty feet below. Occasionally battered 
things were found floating in that pond — stray 
animals which had got caught in the stream 
above ; and twice since the mill had closed down 
twenty years ago a child had been discovered, 
bruised and dead, in the placid pool below the 
wheel. But, then, these had been small animals 
and children — quite unable to keep their feet. 
Whereas Peter Benton was a man, and tall at 

Into this stream, flooded more than usual 
with the recent rain, had fallen poor little Toots. 
Being completely blind in both eyes, it had 
serenely waddled over the edge of the small 
hand-bridge which spanned the water, and had 
departed, struggling feebly, towards the mill- 

wheel seventy yards away. At the moment of 
the catastrophe Peter Benton and Madge 
Saunderson were standing on the bridge, and her 
scream of horror rang out simultaneously with 
the splash. 

The man, seeing in an instant what had 
happened, raced along the bank, and overtook 
the dog when it had gone about half-way, at a 
point where the current quickened and seemed 
to leap ahead. And then had occurred the 
dreadful thing. 

According to the girl, afterwards, he just stood 
there and watched Toots dashed to pieces. 
According to the man — but, incidentally, he said 
nothing, which proved his cowardice, as the girl 
remarked. He had nothing to say. Instead 
of going into the water and seizing the dog, he 
had stood on the bank and let it drown. And 
he had no excuse. Of course, there would have 
been a certain element of risk ; but no man who 
was a man would have thought of that. Not 
with poor little Toots drowning before his eyes. 

And his remark at the moment when she had 
rushed up to him, almost hysterical with grief, 
showed him to be— well, perhaps it would be as 
well not to say what she thought. Madge 
Saunderson had paused in her narrative at tea 
and consumed a sugar cake. 

" What did he say, Madge ? " asked Sybil 

" He said," remarked Miss Saunderson, 
" ' Sorry. No bon, as they say. It really wasn't 
worth it — not for Toots.' Can you beat it ? " 
she stormed. " ' Not for Toots ' ! Poor little 
heart — drowning before that brute's eyes/* 

"Of course," said Sybil, thoughtfully, " the 
mill-stream is very dangerous." 

" My dear Sybil," answered Madge Saunder- 
son, coldly, " if you're going to take that point 
of view I have nothing more to say. But I'd 
like to know what you'd have said if it had been 

The terrier in question regarded the speaker 
with an expectant eye, in which thoughts of cake 
shone brightly. 

" What happened then ? M asked one of the 

" We walked in silence down to the pool below,** 
continued Madge. " And there — we found him 
— my little Toots. He floated to the side, and 
Mr. Benton was actually daring enough to stoop 
down and pull him out of the water. It was 
then that he added insult to injury," she went on, 
in a voice of suppressed fury. " ' Rotten luck. 
Miss Saunderson,' he said ; ' but in a way it's 
rather a happy release for the poor little brute, 
isn't it ? I'm afraid only your kind heart pre- 
vented him being put away years ago.' " 

A silence had settled on the room, a silence 
which was broken at length by Sybil. 

" He was very old, wasn't he ? " she mur- 

Madge Saunderson's eyes flashed ominously. 
" Eighteen," she said. " And I quite fail to see 
that that's any excuse. You wouldn't let an old 
man of ninety rJrcvrn, ivould you-i-just because 
he wa* old ? And Toot? was quite as human ** 
any old man, and far iess trouble." 



Such had been the official communique t issued 
to a feminine gathering at tea-time ; in due 
course it travelled to the rest of the house -party. 
And, as is the way with such stories, it had not 
lost in the telling. 

Daisy Johnson, for in- 
stance, had retailed it with 
some gusto to the Rising 

M What a pity about Mr, 
Benton, isn't it ? M she bad 
murmured before dinner, 


moving a little so that the pink light from a 
l*mp fell on her face. Pink, she reflected, was 
undoubtedly the colour she would have for all 
the shades when she had a house. 

The Rising Barrister regarded her casually. 
" What is a pity ? " he asked. 

" Haven't you heard ? " she cried. " Why, 
this afternoon poor little Toots — Madge Saunder- 
son's dog — fell into the mill-stream/' 

" Thank God I " ejaculated the Barrister, 

" Oh ( I know he wasn't an attractive dog 1 " 
she said. 

" Attractive I " he 

interrupted. (l Why p 

the little beast's 

snorts reverberated 

through the 

house \ '* 

" But still,* 1 she continued, firmly, " I 

don't think Mr. Benton should have let 

it drown before his eyes without raising a 

finger to save it- He stood stock-still on 

the bank — hesitating; and then it was too 

late< Of course, I suppose it was a little 

dangerous." She shrugged a delightful 

pair of shoulders gracefully. " I don't 

think most men would have hesitated/' She 

glanced at the Rising Barrister as she spoke, 

and if he failed to alter the " must men " to 

his own advantage the fault was certainly not 

hers, It struck him suddenly that pink gave a 

most attractive lighting effect. 

M Er — perhaps not," he murmured. " Still. 
I expect he was quite right, you know, One — 
er — should be very careful what one says in 
cases of this sort/ 1 

Which was whv *. few minutes later he retailed 



" The faintest tinge of the yellow streak," he 
said, confidentially. " There was sometliing or 
other in France — I don't exactly recall it at 
this moment. I know I heard something." 

But the Celebrated Actor flatly refused to 
agree. " I don't know anything about France."' 
he said, firmly. " I know a lot about that dog. 
If a suitable occasion arises, I shall publicly 
propose a vote of thanks to young Benton. 
Would you believe me, sir, only yesterday, when 
outlining my part in my new play to Lady 
Vera and one or two others, the little brute 
bit me in the ankle ! True, I had inadvertently 

trodden on it, but " He waved a careless 

hand, as if dismissing such a trifling cause. 

From all of which it will be seen what the 
general feeling in the house was towards Peter 
Benton on the night in question. And Peter, a 
very discerning young man, was not slow to 
realize it. At first it had amused him ; after a 
while he had become annoyed. More or less 
a stranger in the locality, he had not known the 
depth of the mill-stream ; and he frankly 
admitted to himself that he had hesitated to go 
into that black, swirling water, not a stone's 
throw from the mill itself, in order to save a dog. 
He had hesitated, and in a second it had been 
too late. The dog had flashed past him, and he 
had watched it disappear over the fall by the 
wheel. It was only later that to him the addi- 
tional reason of the dog's extreme age and 
general ill-health presented itself. And the 
additional reason had not added to his popu- 
larity with the animal's mistress. 

He quite saw her point of view : he was 
annoyed because no one apparently saw his. 
And he was far too proud to attempt any explana- 
tion — apart from seeing the futility of it. He 
could imagine the cold answer — " Doubtless you 
were perfectly right. Poor little Toots is dead 
now. Shall we consider the incident closed ? " 

Savagely he kicked the turf on the lawn 
outside the window where they were dancing. 
For three in succession Sybil had had Captain 
Seymour as her partner, and Peter had hoped 

" Oh, hang that horrible little dog ! " he 
muttered to himself, striding viciously away into 
the garden. 

A brilliant moon was shining, flooding the 
country with a cold white light, in which things 
stood out almost as clearly as by day. Half a 
mile away an unfinished factory chimney, still 
with its scaffolding round it, rose sheer and black 
against the sky. Around it new works were 
being erected, and for a while Peter stood motion- 
less, gazing at the thin column of bricks and 

Only that morning he had watched men at 
work on it, with almost a shudder. They looked 
like so many flies crawling over the flimsy 
boards, and he had waited while one workman 
had peered nonchalantly over the edge of his 
plank and indulged in a wordy warfare with 
the man below. It seemed that unless the 
latter mended his ways he would shortly receive 
a brick on his blinking nut ; but it was the com- 
plete disregard for their dizzy height that had 
iascinated Peter. He could imagine few pro- 

fessions which he would less sooner join than 
that pf steeplejack. And yet the funny thing 
was that on the occasions when he had flown 
he had not noticed any discomfort at all. 

Presumably there was some scientific reason 
for it — something which would account for the 
fact that, though he could fly at twenty times 
the height of St. Paul's without feeling giddy, 
on the occasion when he had looked over the 
edge of that great dome from the little platform 
at the top he had been overcome with a sort of 
dreadful nausea, and had had to go back quickly. 

" Why, Peter, what are you doing here all 
alone ? " A voice behind him made him look 

For a moment the dog episode had gone out 
of his mind, and, with a quick smile, he took a 
step towards the speaker. " Why, Sybil," he 
said, " how topping you look ! Isn't it a glorious 
night ? " And then suddenly he remembered, 
and stopped with a frown. 

" Peter," said the girl, quietly, " I want to 
hear about this afternoon from you, please." 

" Haven't you heard all there is to be heard ? " 
he answered, a little bitterly. " Miss Saunder- 
son's dog fell into the mill-stream. I failed to 
pull it out : to be strictly accurate, I failed to 
attempt to pull it out. That's all there is to it." 

They faced one another in the moonlight, 
and after a while the girl spoke again. " That's 
not like you, Peter. Why did you let it drown ? ** 

" Because," said the man, deliberately, " I 
did not consider I was called on to risk my life 
to save a dog. Even poor little Toots, ' ' he added, 

" Supposing it had been a child, Peter ? " 
said the girl, gravely. 

" My God ! " answered the man, very low. 
" As bad as that, is it ? Oh, my God ! " 

" They're saying things, Peter : all these 
people are saying things." 

The man thrust his hands into his pockets, 
and stared with brooding eyes at the black, 
lifeless chimney. 

" Saying I'm a coward, are they ? " He forced 
the words out. " What do you think. Sybil ? " 

The girl bit her lip, and suddenly put her 
hand on his arm. " Oh ! Peter," she whispered. 
" it wasn't like you — not a bit ! " 

" You think," he said dispassionately, " that* 
I should have been justified — more, that I 
ought to have jumped into the mill-stream in 
flood to save that dog ? " 

But the girl made no answer : she only looked 
miserably at the man's averted face. 

" I don't know," she said at length. " I don't 
know. It's so — so difficult to know what to 

Gently Peter Benton removed her hand 
from his arm. " That is quite a good enough 
answer for me, Sybil." He faced her gravely. 
" The thing is unfortunate, because I was going 

to ask you — to-night " His jaw set and 

he turned away for a moment. Then he faced 
her again. " But never mind that now : the 
situation, as they say In Parliament, does not 
arise. I would like- yon, however, to know that 
I do not think about the matter at all. For one 






brief second this afternoon I did think about 
it ; for the fraction of a minute I had made 
up my mind to go in after the dog. And then 
I realized how utterly unjustifiable such an 
action \tfould be. Since that moment — as I 
say— I have not thought about the matter at 

all ,J 

" And supposing it had been Ruffles ? " asked 
the girl, slowly. 

For a while the man hesitated. Then : " My 
decision would have been the same/' he answered, 
turning on his heel- 

Insidb the house the Celebrated Actor and the 
Rising Barrister were each proving to their own 
sat i.s fact iim, if not to their partners', that the 
modem dance held no terrors for them. The 
two boys were getting warmer and